


Devil May Care

by MrsCaulfield, sunflcwers



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Childhood Friends, Daddy With The Yacht Crowley, Friends to Lovers, Human AU, I wish i could make this fic sound more enticing but that's literally it, Light Dom/sub, Look we promised a sugar daddy au based on manbun Crowley and we delivered, M/M, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Sugar Daddy Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:54:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27591661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsCaulfield/pseuds/MrsCaulfield, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflcwers/pseuds/sunflcwers
Summary: Thanks to a run-in with a thief on an otherwise peaceful day, Aziraphale finds himself reunited with Anthony J. Crowley—his ever-charming, devilishly handsome childhood friend. They have a lot to catch up on, and Aziraphale finds he's still clinging to a truckload of memories. And unbeknownst to him, it's also on this day that the stirrings of change begin to unravel his stubborn old bookshop in Soho.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 191
Kudos: 380
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Top Crowley Library





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the Sugar Daddy Crowley AU based on the Manbun Crowley look _(or as I have lovingly dubbed him, Daddy With The Yacht)_ that I've been screaming about for months. 
> 
> This fic is a collab between me (Az/MrsCaulfield) and Courtney (sunflcwers)! And I swear, this wouldn't have been fleshed out at all if it wasn't for her. 
> 
> Special thanks also to our beta Stef (@flamingbentley on twitter)! As always, thanks for being our biggest supporter! 
> 
> **Rated E for explicit sexual scenes in the following chapters. Tags will be updated accordingly.**

_"This is lovely. I'm so glad you suggested we go out to see this," the younger boy beamed, plopping comfortably on the spot beside his companion._

_"Those smarmy kids still giving you a rough time in school, then?"_

_He kept quiet, but he didn't need to say anything. It was rather obvious, after all. He stared up at the night sky, face splitting into a wide smile. "Everything is okay, now."_

_“Say, which one’s your favorite?” the older boy asked, glancing over at him._

_“I don’t think I have one yet,” he replied absentmindedly, wringing his wrists. An anxious tick he’d picked up recently. "You've always known more about these things than me."_

_They were both silent for a while. And then:_

_"I would buy you the stars, angel."_

_The younger boy froze, his heart racing, and turned to stare at him._

_"What?"_

___

Aziraphale has never much believed in the saying _'Everything changes.'_

Change is constantly afoot all over his beloved London, and sure its raucous bustle makes for one dynamic setting. It's made evident in the ever changing facades of buildings and in the roads which move in a lateral sprawl, gradually encroaching whatever they encounter. But even sites of such vivacity have their quiet spots, tucked into the little corners like some well-kept secret. Aziraphale would like to believe that his old bookshop is one of those.

Aziraphale has owned the place for years, and he has cared for it all this time without the heavy-handed grasp of change ever setting down on it. Its stubborn owner would not have it any other way. There is something comforting about living in a time that is not your own, and Aziraphale relishes in this comfort through his vast collection of unchanging old books _(as well as other, equally unchanging antique items)_.

In truth, however, change is a visitor of many faces, and Aziraphale should have known by now that no one, not even he, can be entirely impervious to it. It comes in various ways, such that not one person can learn to fully anticipate it.

In his case, it comes in the form of a prickly looking young man who has just shoved a bunch of his prized rare edition prophecy books into a duffel bag, cast him a sheepish yet slightly mischievous grin, and made a mad dash towards the exit.

 _"Stop them!"_ Aziraphale calls out. 

He is too far away from the door and he's never been the athletic type. But the only other customer present, a tall and lanky figure in dark clothing, looks up at the sound of his distress, and leaps off to the storefront like an uncoiled spring.

Outside, the chase continues, and Aziraphale can do no more than clutch his hands at the door, watching as the valiant customer grabs hold of the thief's arm. The thief recoils, swings out their arm, and flings off the lanky man as though he weighs little more than the incriminating duffel bag in their other arm.

Without another glance back, the thief manages to duck into the crowd and is out of sight in only a matter of seconds.

_Well, crud._

He feels his insides shrivel up and sink heavily in his gut. His priceless rare prints, collected over the span of decades, whisked off by a _nefarious street hoodlum!_ He begins to consider setting off himself in the general direction the thief ran off to, when he suddenly remembers the customer.

Aziraphale rushes to the stranger's side. The first thing he notices about the impeccably well-dressed man is his locks of gleaming dark red hair, falling into waves to curtain his face from Aziraphale's view.

The second thing he notices is that the man is crouched down on the ground and gasping for air.

"Oh dear!" Aziraphale hangs awkwardly a couple of steps away, unsure what to do with himself. "I am terribly sorry about that. Are you alright?"

The stranger responds only with a series of grumbly muttering, clutching his left knee close to his torso. " _Great blasted bollocks—!_ "

"Did you—" Aziraphale shifts nervously as the stranger gets up on his feet. "Are you hurt? Perhaps we should check if you are? It wouldn't do to—"

"I'm fine," the stranger replies icily. He dusts off his coat with a slight air of pomp, and something about this hits Aziraphale like a battering ram.

He sucks in a huge gust of breath.

"A-Anthony?" He blinks at the image before him, as though to assess the validity of this dream, supposing that it _is_ a dream. "Anthony Crowley?"

The stranger— _no, not a stranger if he's correct about this—_ moves to face him, and there are features new to him. The sharpness of his jawline. The tightness around his mouth. The lines on his forehead as his dark brows scrunch up in confusion. But all the same, he _knows_. He sees the vestiges of an old familiarity, and his heart does flip flops inside his chest before he even knows that's what it's doing.

He flicks a brief gaze over at his old friend and looks away hastily, his cheeks flaming. "Oh good lord."

"Aziraphale?" 

He tries to quell the fluttering sensations in his chest. He is far too old for that sort of thing.

"Yes, yes it's me," he says primly. "Do come in for tea, will you?"

Anthony—no _Crowley_ , nods wordlessly and follows him back into the shop.

"You work here?" Crowley asks once they've settled back inside.

"In a manner of speaking," replies Aziraphale. He heads off in the direction of the now vacated spot on one of his bookcases. "I own this place. Well, inherited it."

The corner of Crowley's mouth tugs up into a small smile, something which seems to exude a confident and amused air. _After all this time, he still wears his sunglasses everywhere,_ Aziraphale thinks fondly.

He shakes off the wave of nostalgia and turns back to the matter at hand. He eyes the space where the books have been, and subconsciously shrivels a little more inside.

"What's been stolen?" Crowley asks, gently this time. "Anything important?"

"Books of Prophecy," he sighs sadly. "Otwell Binns, Robert Nixon, Mother Shipton. All first editions, scoured for ages. All _gone._ "

"I'm sorry for your loss." From the looks of it, Crowley does not truly know the value of what has been lost, but he appreciates it all the same.

"Look, don't you have cameras in here?"

Aziraphale stares at him. "Should I have?"

Now it's Crowley's turn to stare back. "Right. Good to see you haven't changed."

“Nonsense. I am not entirely unchanged. It’s been a long time, after all.”

“Yes it has. How long has it been exactly? Twenty years?”

“Twenty-two.” Aziraphale ignores the pang in his chest as he says so. “Give or take a few months.”

“Ah. Right.”

Crowley takes a step back, looking around to assess the place, and Aziraphale wonders what he's thinking. The bookshop is a bit worn, and he can't exactly claim to be the best businessman when he all but drives away customers on his bad days. Despite that, he takes pride in having built up a place which sizzles with so much history - with stories etched not only in the rustled pages of his collection, but also in the threadbare carpets, the chipped edges of the register, and each little trinket scattered across the room.

Then, he notices the light gait in Crowley's step.

"Your knee!"

Crowley's brows rise up towards his hairline. "I said I'm fine."

"Nonsense. You should at least make sure it's alright. Come into the backroom for tea."

Surprisingly, Crowley doesn’t protest. Aziraphale leads him into the small room where there's some comfortable old seating and a kitchenette. He invites Crowley to take a seat on the brown leather sofa and sets off to put the kettle to work.

"Does it hurt at all?" He asks while he busies himself with making tea. His hands are trembling, but whether it’s from the act of thievery on his shop or magically running into Crowley again he isn’t sure.

"Was fine just a while ago, but it's sort of gone all throb-y now."

"It might be swollen. I'll go get you some ice for that." Aziraphale briefly disappears off into his flat upstairs and returns with an ice pack.

Crowley only glares at it. "Err..."

"Have you tried to see if it's swollen?" Aziraphale inquires, attempting to assess Crowley's knee through his jeans. But as he has no idea what the size of Crowley's knees is on a normal day, he ends up drawing a blank. "Take this and roll up your denims."

"Yeah, um, that's um. See, that's the problem. I, err, can't."

"What do you mean you can't?" Aziraphale is left perplexed. "It's rather a simple thing, don't be stubborn."

"That's not it, Aziraphale. I mean, I physically _can't_." Crowley waves a hand at his bottom half. "Or rather, the uh, jeans can't."

This time, Aziraphale runs a gaze over too-tight denims on a pair of long and slender legs. "Oh."

"Yeah, I—do you mind if I take them off?"

_What?_

"What?"

Crowley backpedals at this reaction. "Yeah, yeah, that's not happening. Forget I said anything."

"I mean, no! It's-it's..." Aziraphale stammers. His face is so hot he wouldn't be surprised if he suddenly started sweating. He hastily drops the ice pack on the empty seat beside Crowley. "I'll just, go check on the tea, shall I?" 

Crowley grins softly. "Probably should."

Aziraphale dithers about on his spot, before sighing and turning back to face him. "If this helps at all, you can use this to-to... Well." He shucks off his beige coat and hands it over to the redhead.

This time, the grin on Crowley's face turns into evident amusement. Even behind those sunglasses, Aziraphale can feel eyes on him, and he has never in his life felt more _seen_.

"For heaven's sake, stop looking at me like that and drape this over your lap!" Aziraphale snaps.

Crowley bursts into a fit of hearty laughter. His hand closes over the fabric, covering Aziraphale's curled fist. There is a spark of heat at the contact even through the thick barrier between their skin, and Aziraphale has to stop himself from flinching by instinct.

Gently, Crowley pushes back on his fist. "It's fine. I'll use my own, see?"

He leans back on the seat and begins taking off his own black coat. And before Aziraphale's soul can detach itself from his body out of sheer mortification, he whips back around and scurries off to check on the tea.

The rest of this chance meeting passes by in a blur. One would think, with the way the previous events have unfolded, that Aziraphale would find it an ordeal to talk to Crowley. But he is astonished to find that it only eases off from there. Even with Crowley grumbling every so often about his throbbing knee, they fall back into conversation as well as any pair of old friends who haven't seen each other in twenty years would. 

And if Aziraphale laughs nervously into his cup of tea to distract himself from the sight of Crowley's bare, lean legs peeking out from under his now wrinkled coat, he should very much like to keep it to himself, thank you very much.

Aziraphale has no idea what he was so nervous about. Sure, judging from what he can surmise of Crowley's clothes and vague stories about the places he's been to, it looks as though he's come into quite a bit of money and gained a wealth of experience from around the world. And while Aziraphale doesn't have much to regret over how his own life has turned out, he has very little to match Crowley in that respect.

But there are fond smiles and long gazes that he makes which lets him know that this is still the same Crowley he met when he was young. The same Crowley who used his spare allowance to get Aziraphale his favorite ice cream after he's had a bad day at school. The same Crowley who bought him cute souvenirs when they'd see each other again after summer vacation.

The same Crowley who, if he were to speak earnestly, was his first love, but who had been a whole three years older than him and could never see him in _that_ way.

But that is only unpacking a trove of confusing feelings. Aziraphale has no business pondering on that now, when they are fully grown adults. No matter how much more attractive he finds Crowley to be _now_ than he did when he was an innocent and besotted fifteen-year-old.

Besides, he doesn't even know whether Crowley is single. He tries to ignore the pang that thought produces. It's not as though he has any sort of claim on him.

Far too soon, the meeting draws to a close and Crowley's trousers are put back on. Aziraphale is left wondering whether he'll ever see him again.

Then, by some miracle, Crowley pauses over by the door.

"We should get dinner sometime."

However undignified, Aziraphale has to admit that his heart fluttered a tiny bit in his ribcage. And though he still laments the loss of his precious books, he finds it easy to give Crowley a huge smile.

"Yes, I agree. We should."

"I'll take you somewhere nice."

"Sounds lovely."

"I'll, uh..." He reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, lined with gleaming black silk, and draws out his phone. "Here, put your number in. I'll text you."

Aziraphale types in his number with slightly numb fingers, and can only hope that he'd typed it in correctly.

Crowley gives him one last lingering grin. "Was good to see you, angel."

The wind gets knocked out of his chest all at once. That nickname. It's been such a long time, how could he still remember?

Then _he_ remembers that he still has to respond. "I am very glad to see you, too, Crowley."

When Crowley disappears into a sleek vintage car, Aziraphale should have recognised it as another sign that the stirrings of change have finally begun to set down on his stubborn old bookshop. And he will, eventually, look back on this day and laugh over how oblivious he'd been. 

But at present, he only sinks into the moment, distracted by thoughts of Crowley's smile and the sound of his voice, asking him to dinner again and again.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley go on that planned dinner meeting. Aziraphale makes a few surprising discoveries in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good lord, we're so ecstatic about all the responses to the first chapter!! Thanks so much and we hope you enjoy this next one :)

_Aziraphale sat at one edge of the bleachers in his school's courtyard— tucked away from the noisy crowd of students shuffling out of the building, and the scrutinizing eyes of some classmates he’d rather not deal with at any hour. It was four in the afternoon, and the eleven year old was waiting for Crowley to arrive._

_It had become some sort of customary practice for them to head home together after their classes would end each day. Something they started when the blond finally moved up the ranks and joined his best friend in secondary school._

_To be fair, his few years of primary education weren't that bad. They were lonely, sometimes, but he had enough friends to make it bearable. And he always had weekends with the redhead to look forward to._

_But he would be lying if he said this new routine wasn't the best part of his day. The fact that he was close to a boy a few grades ahead of him—one of the relatively popular kids who anyone would either swoon over or want to befriend—was something he held with a point of pride._

_Crowley finally appeared around ten minutes later, backpack slung on one shoulder and sunglasses falling down to the bridge of his nose. (He started wearing those things a year ago, explaining that he'd rather keep them on than hear strange comments about his eye colour. Aziraphale didn't quite understand, since he always thought his eyes were lovely.)_

_"Ready to head back?" the older boy asked, leaning against a post and looking like an absolute dream._

_The blond gulped, trying to ease away the butterflies caused by just looking at him. "Yes, of course." he replied with a smile, quickly getting to his feet. But then his stomach betrayed him, rumbling loud enough for the both of them to hear._

_"Ah. Sorry… Might be a bit hungry."_

_"You don't need to apologize about being hungry, angel," he reassured, but then his eyes lit up. "Oh! Didn't you pack your favorite crisps to nibble on while waiting? I remember you gushing about it this morning."_

_Aziraphale looked off in shame. "Igaveitaway."_

_"You what?"_

_"I gave it away!"_

_He blinked hard, clearly trying to process the information. "But why?"_

_"A girl was crying in the hallway earlier, and I learned it was because Sandalphon and his gang took her allowance," he explained, feeling riled up by the mere memory of it. "Those bullies are vicious animals, Crowley! So I gave her the only food I had left."_

_The older boy looked at him in shock, gaze unreadable as they stood in front of each other by the bleachers._

_Aziraphale frowned, wringing his thumb. He was worried Crowley would think him silly and reckless for it. It made sense, he thought to himself. What if the other would always see him as this little kid who always ended up doing the wrong thing?_

_But then the redhead smiled. That fond, lopsided smile that always made his heart do flips._

_"Don't worry your pretty little head, angel," he said, ruffling his hair. "C'mon, while the cafeteria is still open. I'll buy you another bag of it."_

_Aziraphale could only nod, cheeks burning— unsure if he was dizzy out of hunger, or because Crowley called him pretty just like that._

_(Dumb puppy love. It must have been the latter.)_

___

This isn't even remotely close to what Aziraphale was envisioning when Crowley told him that he would 'take him somewhere nice'.

Aziraphale imagined a hearty meal in a cosy family restaurant. Creaky wooden chairs and fogged up wine glasses set over a tacky tablecloth. Warm and easygoing conversation with Crowley lasting well throughout the night, where they catch up on each other's lives and remind one another to tip their server once they're ready to go.

Instead of all that, Crowley took him to the bloody _Ritz_.

"You alright there, Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale swallows a lump in his throat, his eyes trained on the imposing hotel facade as Crowley falls into step beside him after handing over his vintage car to the valet.

"This is." Aziraphale is at a loss for words, which in itself is a great feat. "Are you certain we're meant to be here?"

Crowley takes on a casual stance, hand in his pocket and looking a bit amused. Aziraphale can feel his eyes on him, watching his every move. Why Crowley should have any reason to be staring at him so carefully, however, he has absolutely no idea.

"Course we're meant to be here," Crowley replies, almost flippantly.

Aziraphale has never before dined at the Ritz, though he'd be lying if he said he hasn't thought about it. Though he has never been lavish or extravagant, he did develop a taste for the finer things in life, and dining at the Ritz has been one of those things he's always meant to do for a special occasion, but had no real reason to.

It just seems like an experience that should be shared with someone. One that's reserved for birthdays and anniversaries - not a dinner to catch up with your former best friend whom you haven't seen in some twenty odd years.

Crowley offers his arm. Aziraphale, still a bit dazed, takes it. He slides his palm over the slippery fabric of Crowley's well-tailored coat and his pulse races.

"Don't you need a reservation for places like these?"

Crowley scoffs. "Guess most people do, yeah."

Aziraphale has no idea what to make of this answer.

It occurs to him now that he hasn't seen Crowley in so long, and he's never exactly been the most perceptive folk, but he does have enough sense to let a layer of skepticism settle on him. Because no matter how lovely Crowley may have been when they were kids, time does alter a person beyond recognition. Aziraphale, who is mostly sedentary and ever so stubborn, may be one of the few exceptions to this.

But Crowley evidently is _not_.

By the entrance to the restaurant, Crowley waves over the maître d' with a flick of his wrist, and they are instantly led off to a table.

"Crowley," Aziraphale says, his voice tight, as he takes his seat across his old friend. "What exactly is it that you _do?_ "

From his expression, it looks as though Crowley did not expect to be asked this question. His face twists up in distaste almost comically. "I dabble a bit in the corporate world. S'not really that glamorous to talk about."

This only serves to set off more alarms for Aziraphale. If Crowley wishes to be secretive about his job then he ought to tread more carefully.

"I imagine this may have been a bit of trouble on your part," he says as the waiter brings them a bottle of champagne. "You didn't have to go through this much, really."

At this, Crowley raises his brows. "It wasn't any trouble, don't worry about it."

Crowley gives him a warm grin, one of those lopsided ones that Aziraphale spent much time fantasising about kissing when he was fifteen. And _god_ , he needs to keep his composure intact (for many reasons). He picks up the menu to distract himself, and promptly chokes on his spit.

"Hey, you alright?" Crowley asks just as he launches into a coughing fit.

Aziraphale slaps a hand over his sternum, feeling his cheeks going hot. "I just - I think, my dear, that this place is... well, I don't know if I should-"

"Order anything you want, angel," Crowley says in a soothing tone. "My treat"

" _Your_ treat?" Aziraphale balks in his seat, and he has to take a moment to remind himself that he is in the bloody Ritz and has to keep up a certain level of decorum which currently escapes him. "You can't be serious!"

"I'm very serious. Consider what a miracle it is that we've run into each other here! Calls for a celebration, don't you think?"

Crowley's tender look gets him to relax, and Aziraphale thinks that for now, it may not be a bad idea to indulge in Crowley's kindness. Just this once. It is, after all, a special occasion.

The food, of course, is heavenly. But he has to wonder why Crowley even brought him to this place when it doesn't even seem like he's fond of the food himself. He barely eats half his dish, spending most of their dinner just watching Aziraphale.

He tries not to feel too self-conscious about it. He's just eating, after all. And with the flurry of emotions running through him from the delectable selection of food to the gentle tunes from the piano across the room, Aziraphale finds himself relaxing in his seat and falling into easy conversation with Crowley once again.

"You still haven't told me what brings you to Soho. I'm surprised I haven't seen you here until now."

Crowley gives him an offhanded hum. "Mh. I recently moved to Mayfair. Just finished fixing up my flat and thought it wouldn’t hurt to take a look around town, but... well, I was mistaken.”

Aziraphale giggles, feeling a bit emboldened by the exquisite champagne. He shoots Crowley what one may interpret to be a coy look. "Well, for what it’s worth, I’m grateful. I’m sure I would have been more shaken if I was alone when it all happened.”

“Yeah. Lucky I was in the area, then." 

“I suppose I am.” 

Crowley looks a bit stunned.

There's quite a bit more conversation as they proceed with dinner. There's talk of more childhood memories as well as some more rounds of laughter mixed with light banter. Aziraphale has never felt so young, establishing an attachment to Crowley like he was a teenager once again. And perhaps, in some ways, this could be a good thing. It's been far too long since his heart was last sent fluttering beyond his control. It's a high that he seldom rode on, and to be feeling it again with someone he's already very comfortable with is such a pleasure.

Despite that, he's under no illusion. Both he and Crowley are grown adults. They could banter and flirt with the familiarity granted to them by their shared history. Nothing wrong with that, and Aziraphale would be a wonderful liar to say that he isn't at all flattered by Crowley's attentions.

But that doesn't necessarily mean that he could dive headfirst into it once again. He'd already fallen for Crowley once - fallen _hard_ , if he remembers correctly. And the memories of that utterly besotted fifteen-year-old, clutching harshly onto his pillow as he sobbed his eyes out the day that Crowley left the country for university, is still fresh in his mind.

Crowley was his best friend. He cared for Aziraphale, as all best friends would. And to some extent, he probably still does. Aziraphale is grateful.

Crowley was also his _fantasy_. The knight in shining armour who got him through bad days in high school. Who always seemed to know when he was distressed and showed up at just the right moment with his startling good looks and heart-rending smile. Aziraphale had fallen _hard_. In the end, though, a fantasy is all Crowley will ever be. Not even this chance meeting can change all that.

And yet, when Crowley drives him back to the bookshop, walks him to his door and even lingers a little, he can't help the hope that springs up in his chest. He tamps it back down. Crowley is just infuriatingly easy to fall in love with. Aziraphale knows better now that none of it means anything more than it actually does.

He receives a message from Crowley that night. Not a long one, mind you. Not even a soppy blurted out love confession. It's a mere three words, and those three words are enough to send a thrill over his stomach, bringing a lovesick smile to stretch over his face.

9:35 PM

**Good night, angel.**

Aziraphale clutches his phone to his chest, trying to still his racing heart as fear hits him all over like a tidal wave.

 _Oh lord. This is_ _not_ _good._

* * *

Anthony J. Crowley is, by all means, a very capable person. He never falls behind on his workload, attends all work conferences (even those set at eight in the morning for whatever ungodly reason), and keeps his house plants perfectly in line at all times.

And now, he’s already made a name for himself in the corporate world for his seemingly innate sense of business. It was a gift, they would say, that always led him to invest in the right things. But really, Crowley only ever saw it as trusting his gut. He’s proud to say it has always paid off, and it almost always pays _well_.

He quickly became accustomed to living like this. It wasn't the _most_ luxurious (not by a long mile, in comparison to others in the elite circles he’s been in), but he has come to appreciate the finer things in life. Like a custom-made black Burberry suit, or the latest pair of Valentino sunglasses, or a classic 1920’s Bentley just because it matches his style. 

It could very well come across as a perfect life, save for the fact that these are things he can only enjoy in solitude. 

Through the years, he's encountered too many people who have only gotten close to him because there was something else they wanted. This led to an ever-present level of distrust with anyone he meets. Not that it really mattered; Crowley had gotten used to it ages ago. 

And then there’s Aziraphale, who may very well represent a time in his life before he became the cold bastard he is today. Aziraphale, who arrives back into Crowley’s life in a way that knocks him head over feet, quite literally. 

He did not have any particular reason for being in that bookshop that day, other than mere curiosity. Having recently moved into his new flat in Mayfair, he thought it could do him some good to take a look around this part of London again. He really did miss this city. For so long, he had contemplated settling here but work had always demanded his presence elsewhere; whether it be in a few months in Edinburgh to follow through with a new business stint, or even a number of years all the way in America to reel in more prospects. Yes, he was very well-traveled, but he hadn’t felt any semblance of a home in a long time.

It is different now, though. A few months prior, he made the executive decision to relinquish overall control of his businesses and opt for a more relaxed, advisory role instead. It almost felt like early retirement. 

And the first place he thought of checking was the bright and bustling Soho. The old bookshop was a deviation from the otherwise modern landscape of the district. Little did he know that stepping in there would lead to a baffling series of events and end with this chance reunion. To be honest, he was worried at first— reunions, after all, can quickly turn into relatively awkward encounters.

Yet they fell back into conversation like no time had passed at all. That was when he remembered that it had always always been so _easy_ with Aziraphale, even when they were younger. _Hell, has it really been twenty two years?_

As far as he could recall, the last time they saw each other was the day before he left their quiet hometown of Tadfield to study in a university abroad. They kept constant communication at first— updating each other on a semi-regular basis, and calling each other when time allowed. But things only got busier and busier, and Crowley was moving on to a new kind of life at full speed ahead. Weekly calls dwindled to greetings on birthdays and holidays, then to nothing at all. 

And as they sat in the backroom of the shop and laughed over these ridiculous circumstances, it dawned on him just how much he had missed his friend this whole time. Perhaps it was because he hasn't felt a real connection in years, or because of the palpable nostalgia settling between them. Or maybe there was a spark of something entirely new to him altogether. In any case, he was fully intent on seeing him again. 

_“We should get dinner sometime.”_ It’s amazing how smoothly he uttered those words, despite the invitation being a shot in the dark. So as soon as Aziraphale agreed, he was set on giving him the best dining experience possible. 

The next evening, Crowley brings him to the Ritz. It is, in fact, his favourite restaurant in London, and he is well-acquainted and moneyed enough for a last-minute reservation to be no problem at all. (Admittedly, he wants to impress Aziraphale, and using his affluence to do so is the only way he really knows how.) 

Inside is a lavish dining area with high-ceiling chandeliers and a piano that lies dormant in the middle of the room. It is majestic, to say the least. He wonders what Aziraphale must be thinking as the maître d' leads them to their table. 

His face betrays him, of course; it is a mixture of wonder and confusion, and the look he gives him after makes it pretty clear he’s dying to ask just how the older man could afford all this. Crowley bites back a smile as they get to their seats. In the most nonchalant way possible, he orders them a bottle of Armand de Brignac champagne and tells his friend that he can get anything he likes. For all intents and purposes, this whole thing already seems like a success.

Well, that is what he initially thinks.

Anthony J. Crowley is, _by all means_ , a self-disciplined person. At least, this is what he tells himself as he watches Aziraphale sink his teeth into a piece of wagyu beef with a look of pure ecstasy. _Fuck,_ he thinks to himself. _That noise he just made sounded almost explicit._

He knows he shouldn't be having these thoughts. They were childhood friends, after all, and more importantly, they haven’t seen each other in decades. But he would be lying to himself if he said there wasn't any new-found attraction. Even the blond's flushed face after he mentioned taking his pants off at the bookshop the other night is already thoroughly etched in his mind. _God, Crowley. Get a grip._

It also doesn’t help that someone begins playing smooth jazz on the grand piano, making the atmosphere too sultry for its own good. Crowley swears it’s the universe playing tricks on him.

“So,” Aziraphale begins, wiping his mouth with a table napkin and settling more comfortably in his seat. Blissfully unaware of his companion’s inner turmoil. “You still haven't told me what brings you to Soho. I'm surprised I haven't seen you here until now.”

He hums in reply, trying to regain his composure. “Mh. I moved to Mayfair recently. Just finished fixing up my flat and thought it wouldn’t hurt to take a look around town, but... well, I was mistaken.”

The blond let out a giggle. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m grateful. I’m sure I would have been more shaken if I was alone when it all happened.”

“Yeah. Lucky I was in the area, then." 

“I suppose I am.” 

He could be wrong, but it almost sounds like they’re _flirting_. A sideways smile curves on Crowley’s lips. A dastardly little thing as he sighs into the last sip of his champagne. Aziraphale offers a shy smile in response, the way he’s looking at him through his lashes enough to drive a man mad. Has he always been this radiant? Of course he has, Crowley realizes. But it’s still the damnedest thing he’s never recognized it until now.

“Angel, remember when—what’s his name—er, Gabriel. Yeah, Gabriel. Remember when that moron tried stealing your Halloween candy in year five so I took his basket and replaced it all with breath mints?”

“My dear, that was eons ago!” Aziraphale laughs, eyes curving to crescents. “Yes. That was very kind of you. I still don’t know how you pulled that off.”

Crowley’s smile only brightens. “Eh, just one of my many _wiles_ as a kid. That’s all.”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles softly. “You still seem pretty wiley to me now.”

“Oh?” 

“Er. It was just an observation! How else would you afford to eat in grand restaurants like this one.”

An indignant, albeit fond, huff leaves Crowley’s lips. “I assure you everything I do is legal, angel.”

“Oh dear, I shouldn’t be making accusations like that should I? I should just thank you, really. You’ve always cared for me so well.”

A warmth settles in Crowley’s chest. “I liked it. Taking care of you, I mean. Doesn’t seem like that’s changed at all.”

Aziraphale pinks adorably. “That’s what friends do for each other, right?” 

Oh. The words feel so terribly bittersweet, but Crowley still can’t comprehend why. “I’d love to be friends with you again,” he blurts out instead.

The angel's expression softens. “Good. Now, don’t go disappearing on me again, my dear. Well, at least not until I buy you dinner as well. For my conscience.”

He can’t help but grin at that. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

After dinner, Crowley drives Aziraphale back to the bookshop and bids him farewell with the promise to meet him again soon. It is only a few hours after, back in his flat, that he finally begins to process everything that has happened in the past few days. So far, these are the things he’s surmised: 

First, he doesn’t think he’s smiled this much in months, or even years, and he’s certain that it must be Aziraphale’s doing.

Second, he has realized that he is probably the most beautiful man he's ever met. So much so that the image of Aziraphale smiling at him in that restaurant will consume his mind for the rest of the evening.

Third, he has this peculiar inclination to buy the angel anything he could ever want. Money wasn’t going to be a problem.

_In conclusion, he was fucked._

Against his better judgement, he takes his phone and sends Aziraphale a text of pure impulse. 

9:35 PM

**Good night, angel.**

He shouldn’t be nervous. It’s just one message after all. He’s not even entirely sure if the younger man uses his smartphone regularly or not. Especially considering how old-fashioned he can be. He wears tartan and uses phrases dating back to the 1600s for heaven’s sake. Surely he shouldn’t expect anything. Still, the waiting drags him down and he starts feeling stupid for sending the text in the first place—

Until he finally hears the notification.

It takes approximately thirty minutes for Aziraphale to reply, with a goodnight message and a blurry photo of the book he was reading that evening, for good measure.

 _Alright_ . Crowley laughs in relief as he reads the message. _Alright, so this is a thing._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter with more Daddy with the Yacht Crowley <3 Please leave us some love!
> 
> We're also on twitter! @angelsnuffbox (MrsCaulfield) and @starrysheen (sunflcwers)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley continue to rebuild their friendship, and for a while it goes smoothly enough - until it doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back with another update! We're so touched that you liked their interactions from the previous chapter, so here's these two dorks just reconnecting again <3 We hope you enjoy it!
> 
> As always, my co-creator is Courtney/sunflcwers and our lovely beta is Stef (@flamingbentley on twitter) without whose help this would be barely readable lol
> 
> -Az/MrsCaulfield

_“Are you ready, Aziraphale?” Crowley called out. He was sat in the living room of the younger boy’s house, dressed up as a vampire in Victorian Era garb— his black suit, cape and top hat fitting well with his preferred aesthetic. Not to mention his glow-in-the-dark fangs tucked in his pocket for later in the evening._

_Frankly, he could very well have had the coolest-looking costume in their entire neighborhood. It was Halloween of 1992, after all. The older boy’s favorite holiday. And his twelve year old mind thought the likes of Count Dracula held the perfect balance of stylish and spooky. “Trick or treating starts in an hour and it’s best we get a head start!”_

_Aziraphale finally stepped out of his room a few minutes later. The nine year old boy was wearing a white tunic, with over-the-shoulder wings and a headband halo to match. It was fairly obvious what he was portraying. When he spotted Crowley, who didn't even hide that he was staring, his cheeks colored a bright pink. “Don't laugh,” he mumbled, frowning._

_The redhead raised his hands up in surrender. “M'not, I swear.”_

_“It's embarrassing,” Aziraphale sighed, clutching onto the handle of his pumpkin-shaped basket tightly. “I told mum that I wanted to be a spy, but she said the costume was too expensive. This was what she came up with instead.”_

_“I don't think it's bad at all!” Crowley exclaimed with a toothy grin. He stepped closer, to help readjust the halo perched on top of the blond's head. “Y'know what? It suits you.”_

_Aziraphale only flushed more. “Really?”_

_“Yeah. You've always been angelic, anyway. The curls and all.”_

_“I guess I'll be okay, then... Hope the others won't tease me for it, though. If Gabriel or Uriel say anything mean.” His expression went sour at the thought._

_“Don't worry 'bout them. I'll protect you,” the older boy stated matter-of-factly, before offering a hand for the other to hold. “Let's get going then, angel.”_

_“Crowley!” Aziraphale yelped, eyes wide. It was the first time the older boy ever called him anything like that._

_He laughed fondly in response. “Got a ring to it, yeah? Angel... suppose I should call you that more often.”_

_With a soft huff, the younger boy finally took his hand. “Sure. But only if it's you.”_

_____

The ultimate cure for insomnia is gardening. Well, that's what Crowley's grandmother once told him when he was a child back in Tadfield. 

This is mainly why he finds himself up to his elbows in dirt at three in the morning, the scent of earth clinging onto his skin and reminding him of much simpler times.

(One of the benefits of designing a flat with no budgetary constraints was that he yielded full power in renovating the entire penthouse. Following the advice of a few architects and interior designers, he made quite a grand place for himself. And one of his favourite spots definitely has to be the greenhouse set up in one of his expansive balconies. A picturesque garden for only him to see.)

With the state of affairs at work going smoothly without him, he finds himself with more time on his hands. At first, he does attempt to relax on his own. He gets all things sorted in his flat, and tends to his plants. 

But Crowley learns the hard way that the restlessness caused by the life he used to lead can't be dealt with overnight. The insomnia doesn't cease, not one bit. 

His only source of respite are the few back-and-forth messages he shares with the angel. In all honesty, he had the urge to visit him again right away, but feared coming on too strong. They agreed to rekindle their friendship, yes. But for things to go back to how it was before right away doesn't seem likely at all.

That is, until Aziraphale invites him over for tea. A courteous invitation extended from one friend to another. Crowley says yes in an instant.

Despite Crowley's initial trepidation, he and Aziraphale fall back into their old routines surprisingly fast. The man is well aware that there are way too many things left unsaid and unresolved between them after he left their hometown and severed their friendship in the process. And it worries him just how much baggage there is to unpack. Perhaps one day they can sit down and air all these things out. But for now, he is content with having found his way back into Aziraphale’s life. 

Still, he realizes quite quickly that his newfound attraction for his friend has no plans of fading away. Rather, it only deepens the more time they spend together. Crowley wishes there was a way he could switch off the part of his brain that wonders how soft and sweet Aziraphale’s lips must be, and if he’d ever dare to let him have a taste. Or how all the lingering glances the angel gives him when they're alone make him feel like there's a chance he could actually be interested too.

' _God,'_ he would think to himself _, 'I’m too old for this.'_

It does feel nice, though. He admits this at some point. Falling back into their old routines sort of feels like collapsing on a bed of freshly-laundered linen after a busy day at work. Or finally reaching home after a twelve-hour connecting flight. It's a feeling that had become so foreign after years of making his way to the top of the corporate ladder. Years of never knowing how to slow down.

Soon enough, he becomes a familiar face at the bookshop. What starts out as a few instances of him dropping by later develops into visits every week. So much so that even a few customers begin noticing his constant presence.

And there are, of course, the occasional slip ups.

Though in Crowley’s defense, it is a lazy sort of day; business seems slower than usual, and he lets his guard down as a consequence.

“Hey, angel,” the redhead asks, making his way from the backroom. “What do you think about Thai food for dinner? You said you were craving the other day and—” He stops in his tracks when he realizes Aziraphale has been talking to a customer. A customer who is now peering at the both of them with a knowing look. Like she's already formulating _ideas_ about them. 

It's the nickname, isn't it?

_Oh shit._

Crowley wishes he could disappear right on the spot. 

His friend, in turn, clears his throat. He can only see his back, but he knows the man well enough to picture his flustered expression.

"Miss Device,” he says, in a valiant attempt to maintain professionalism. “Do inform me if you have any more inquiries, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

"I'll let you know. Thank you so much for your help, Aziraphale. Now, don't let me keep you!" She smiles slyly at the both of them before promptly exiting the shop.

Crowley winces when he hears the front door click shut, feeling rather embarrassed. But he supposes he should speak up first. He's the one who barged into the storefront calling him an angel. Something that could definitely be taken the wrong way.

"Yeah. Sorry 'bout that," he mutters sheepishly. He hopes to any god out there that it doesn't come off as rude or insincere, like how it usually does when he feels as awkward as this.

Aziraphale exhales, like he's been holding his breath the entire time, before turning around and facing him. There's a soft smile on his face, but it doesn't completely reach his eyes. "No worries, my dear. Anathema is one of my regular customers, so I can assure you she's friendly. I'll just get teased for a bit."

He's holding something back, the older man suspects. It makes him frown.

"I can refrain from calling you that, if you want." The words feel foreign as he speaks them. He doesn't want to do that at all.

"No!" the blond answers a bit too quickly. "I mean, you don't have to stop. I've… I've always liked the nickname."

Crowley feels something swell in his chest. Fond, and warm, and familiar. He's terrible with feelings.

"That's. Er, good. I'm glad." (He's terrible with words now too, apparently.)

Thankfully, Aziraphale doesn't seem to mind. "So, you mentioned Thai for dinner?"

"Yep! My treat."

 _My treat_ , he insists, every single time he visits him. It becomes sort of a reflex on his part. Probably because he's getting used to their old dynamic. That's what he tells himself. 

(It started out with a simple box of pastries he brought the day Aziraphale invited him over for tea. Crowley watched as the angel practically beamed at him, and took the box carefully like it was some kind of relic. He observed the way his friend took his first bite of the strudel and wiggled happily on the spot. He _wiggled_ , and the older man found it absolutely adorable.)

He consequently gives in to his tendency to subtly spoil the angel whenever possible. Each time they meet now, Crowley offers a little something he'd buy from a cafe or bakery en route to the bookshop, and he’s always rewarded with a smile so blindingly bright he’s thankful for his ever-present sunglasses.

Each and every time, it feels intensely satisfying.

Today is no different, though he swears the grin he receives is just a bit more affectionate than usual. “Thank you, my dear.”

“S’nothing, angel,” Crowley says, nonchalant. You know, like a liar. “Uh, by the way, Eric will be stopping over with something we can nibble on in the meantime.” 

“Eric?” Aziraphale tips his head to the side curiously. 

“He's my assistant. Told him to drop by with the brioche you wanted to try from that new bakery that just opened.”

The younger man’s eyebrows knit in confusion. "But, my dear, there's always a line to get in. Heard it takes hours to get an order. How did you?"

"Please, it's me you're talking about," he says with a playful eye roll. As if that's reason enough. "Also, I made Eric line up for it."

_"Crowley!"_

Before Aziraphale can protest any further, said assistant barrels through the front door, carrying three boxes of those brioche rolls he just mentioned— the sweet smell of freshly baked bread already wafting through the bookshop and silencing the younger man’s complaints. Crowley bites back the smug grin threatening to form on his lips.

It takes a minute or so for Eric to catch his breath, but other than that he remains completely courteous. After politely greeting them both, he places the boxes on the counter.

"Here you go, sir,” Eric remarks, as if this is just another day on the job. “I also sent you an email with all the details about the event you're being asked to attend next week.”

The older man blinks incredulously. “What event?”

“The Finance Magnates Summit. Mr. La Vista insisted that you go to this one, sir.”

“ _Urgh. Hasturrr_ ,” he hisses, running his hands through his hair in frustration. After a moment, he nods dismissively. “Yeah, alright. I’ll go.”

Eric smiles hesitantly, still hoping to stay on his boss’ good side. “Got it, Mr. Crowley!”

Well. That effectively puts an end to his few blissful weeks of early retirement.

*******

_"Great pustulent mangled bollocks to whoever invented whole-day work conferences,"_ Crowley mutters to himself as takes another gulp of his coffee. It's only seven in the morning on a Friday, and yet he's already exhausted.

There are already so many people crowding this hotel lobby. All dressed in their same old tailored suits. All making nice, unnerving small talk. 

He's never really been a fan of these kinds of events. They are always either dreadfully boring or packed with passive aggressive snobs, and the mere idea that he will have to spend an entire day inside the dull venue can ruin his mood instantly. And so he is properly grumpy because of it. 

It's an irrational thought; he knows this. There was a point to these meetings, and he was very well excited for the first one he was ever invited to (once upon a time, he was a twenty-something who held the fact that he was the youngest delegate on their team with a point of pride). However, as time goes by, everything just ends up sounding repetitive.

For some reason, he'd rather be in Aziraphale's shop. It's a thought that passes through his mind briefly, but he brushes it aside when the event staff begin to usher people into the venue.

“Ah, bugger. Might as well get it over with,” Crowley sighs as he throws the disposable coffee cup into the bin and steps into the conference hall. 

At least he has the open bar to look forward to.

* * *

It isn't that Aziraphale is wholly unreceptive to change. He is a stubborn man, but not at all a nonsensical one. But people who are so rarely visited by this can take a much longer time than most to realise it. To Aziraphale, this Friday evening is only one of many. He closes the shop a half-hour earlier than his indicated hours, and settles on his favoured comfy armchair with a steaming mug of hot cocoa. 

This Friday evening, to him, is just like all the others. He pays no mind to the light patter of rain from outside, nor to the screeching tires of one 1926 Bentley coming to a halt in front of his establishment.

A set of loud raps comes from the front door, and Aziraphale huffs, his face turning sour. "We are _closed!_ " 

"Aziraphale, it's me!"

He launches himself off his seat at the sound of Crowley's muffled voice. He glances at his smartphone, but there aren't any unread messages. Crowley didn't tell him at all that he was coming.

He trudges off to the storefront and spots Crowley through the front doors, peering in with a hand against the glass. He leans back when he sees Aziraphale, grinning madly.

"Open the door!" Crowley holds up a bottle of wine by his face.

Aziraphale unlocks the doors to let him in. Crowley's hair is coated with droplets from the moderate downpour, a few streaks sliding down the fabric of his suit. Aziraphale takes this all in and is rendered speechless.

Anthony Crowley, his childhood crush, has _absolutely no business_ looking so utterly delectable in a black velvet suit. His dark silk shirt, unbuttoned at the top, reveals the dip between his collar bones, hinting at tufts of chest hair. 

"This is a bit short notice." Crowley's voice snaps him out of his trance, and he hurries to meet his eyes once again, his cheeks growing hot.

"I thought you were at a conference?" Aziraphale has to pause to wonder whether such an outfit is acceptable for that sort of thing. Crowley has on his usual charming grin, but there's a tightness to his face that seems quite a bit off. "What happened?"

"I am nowhere near drunk enough to talk about that." He walks past Aziraphale, pausing under the domed ceiling in the center of the room. He looks up at the light, spinning dramatically. "Mind if I hang here for a bit?"

It takes all of Aziraphale's self-discipline to keep from staring at his neck.

"It's um, it's alright." He gestures toward the backroom. "Shall we get comfortable, then?"

Hours later, Crowley sinks himself down on the couch across Aziraphale, waving his wineglass frantically in the air. The drink sloshes about and half of it empties onto his lap. He's divested himself of his velvet jacket, which now hangs limply on the back of the couch. 

"I just - you think they would know!" Crowley blabbers, baring his teeth. It is perhaps a comical sight, but Aziraphale is too distracted by the movement of his hands to take note of it. "But they don't?"

Aziraphale nods in agreement, though he has no idea what he is agreeing to.

"And when the old fart went up, I fucking lost it! Got up and walked out then and there." Crowley swings his arm around for the glass to meet his mouth, but seems to have misjudged entirely, and the remaining drink spills onto his lap once again.

"Huh."

"Oh, I'll - " Aziraphale stands up, pausing when a raging hiccup takes over his throat. "I'll get you a flannel."

The journey to the kitchenette and back seems an arduous one, with his feet making zigzags across the hardwood floor rather than walking up front. The bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape has long been used up. Aziraphale supplements with one of his own stock, and the night goes on and on, with neither of them knowing exactly just how much time has passed.

Aziraphale manages to get himself to Crowley's side to hand him the flannel, but cannot seem to muster up the effort of returning to his seat. He plops down on the sofa beside him, watching as he dabs sloppily over the wet stains on his trousers.

Aziraphale turns on his side and bursts into a fit of giggles.

"What's so funny?"

"The last time I had you here, you had your jeans off."

Crowley freezes tilting his head toward Aziraphale with an expression of rapt interest. "So I had."

"Never thought I'd see you without clothes on." Aziraphale lets out a breathy sigh. 

"Why?" asks Crowley, his tone a tad more dramatic than how he would probably say it when sober.

Aziraphale hums, leaning his shoulder on the back of the sofa. His eyes rake over Crowley's lean form, not even bothering to be discreet about it now.

"You're my fantasy," he says dreamily, letting out a gust of breath. "You always were."

And rather than asking what he meant by that (as he probably would if he was sober), Crowley leans in, crossing the sea of space between them. His arm comes up to stretch over the back of the couch, beside Aziraphale's head. The tips of his fingers settle millimetres away from the blond's nape.

Aziraphale stays rooted to his spot. He makes no move to pull away.

The corner of Crowley's mouth, tinged red with wine, pulls up into a rich smirk. 

"You think of me as your fantasy." Aziraphale can smell the drink from his breath and it fogs up his already fuzzy brain. "Isn't that just precious."

Aziraphale makes a feeble attempt to blink away the bleariness from his eyes. He focuses on Crowley, on his own reflection on those dark sunglasses that he never takes off, down the sweeping line of his slightly crooked nose, to the enticing plumpness of his lower lip.

"You're mocking me," he says with an air of finality, starting to pull away.

Crowley grabs onto his arm, halting his movement. He captures Aziraphale's gaze with so little effort that it's almost unfair. Crowley has always been so captivating to him.

"M'not." His voice has gone low, edging on a precipice that sizzles with a sense of danger. It sends flames down Aziraphale's spine. "I've seen you staring." Crowley shifts his hold to Aziraphale's wrist, bringing it close to his chest to ghost over his collarbone. 

Crowley leans even closer, nuzzling his cheek. "I think you like what you see."

A flurry of shame threatens to rise up in Aziraphale's system. His pulse races and he knows that Crowley can feel it through the skin of his wrist, still caught in the firm grip of long fingers.

"You are being horribly unfair," Aziraphale says, pouting.

A dark chuckle rises from Crowley's throat as he trails his nose up to wispy blond hair. "Not being unfair, angel. Believe me," he says in a rumbling tone. "I like what I see, too."

The earth seems to be shifting. He closes his eyes, tilts up his head as he feels the press of Crowley's lips against a sensitive spot behind his ear. The shiver that dances down his spine is downright heavenly, and Crowley is so close that their wine-heated bodies are almost pressed up entirely at their torsos.

Something hot and wet flicks at his earlobe--Crowley's tongue, it seems, and Aziraphale lets out an obscene moan, his back arching and his head tilting to bare his neck for the redhead. Crowley wraps a possessive arm around his shoulders, and the sensations are about as sloshed in his brain as they both are, but Aziraphale sighs into the embrace, sweat starting to seep through his layers of clothing.

"C-Crowley, what are you - "

"Shhh, angel." Crowley releases his wrist to lay his palm flat over Aziraphale's thigh. The touch is hot and firm, sliding up towards the waistband of his trousers, dangerously close to his groin, before moving back down towards his knee. His other arm is still wound around Aziraphale, hand rubbing circles onto his shoulder and it feels a lot like being caught by a predator. His mind is lost, trapped in coils of Crowley. He whispers into the blond’s ear. "Let me take care of you. Just be good for me, alright?"

A needy whimper escapes his throat. His hand comes to rest on Crowley's clavicle as Crowley continues to place wet, open mouthed kisses down the side of his neck. His breathy moans come out in increased pitches as the need to touch and be touched consumes him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, craning his head toward the ceiling. He gulps audibly. “Will you… will you have your way with me?”

Crowley’s mouth tugs up into a grin against his neck. “Been wanting to touch you. Is this what you want?”

In response, he slides his palm over Crowley's chest, the tufts of coarse hair sliding against his skin. It's extremely warm. He shifts close and unbuttons Crowley's silk shirt.

All at once, Crowley pulls back. His arms slide away from Aziraphale's skin, leaving the blond feeling utterly bereft. He gasps at the sensation of emptiness, searching Crowley with a needy gaze.

Crowley swats away his hand, groaning low. His jaw is set tightly and he fixes Aziraphale with a disconcertingly stern look. Aziraphale feels his chest constricting, wondering what he's done wrong and how he can fix it and have the older man touch him again.

"What..." Aziraphale chokes out, his voice strangled, not at all sounding like his own. "Have I done something wrong?"

He isn't sure what causes the shift in Crowley's expression. It turns softer somehow. Crowley's hand comes up to his head, fingers sliding up and weaving through his hair and Aziraphale closes his eyes and leans into the touch, grazing the tip of his nose to Crowley's wrist. 

When Crowley speaks, it's as though a switch has been flipped. His voice is low and dangerous, stemming from the pits of hell. It lights up a flame in him that has been flickering for ages, bringing life and eagerness to an urge that he never realised has been lying dormant, all this time.

"Good angels know to ask permission.” His tone is playful but his fingernails dig into Aziraphale's scalp, eliciting a sharp, _delightfully shocked_ gasp from the blond. “Do as they’re told.”

A shiver racks through his frame. 

"Will you be good, Aziraphale?"

Crowley's hand slides down to his nape. Aziraphale looks at him through a hooded gaze, gasping softly at the flurry of new sensations inside him.

"Yes."

Crowley's mouth curls up into a sneer. "Take off your clothes."

With nimble fingers, Aziraphale opens up the buttons of his shirt one by one and slides it down his shoulders. The rush of cool air on his overheated, flushed skin brings momentary relief. Crowley watches him carefully, one knee pulled up on the couch in a casual pose. Aziraphale sets to work on his pants. He slides them down his hips and tries not to squirm under Crowley's unrelenting gaze.

Soon he sits completely bare on the couch. He has no idea what he's doing, or barely what is happening. He's running through the motions of his rushing mind, and he suspects Crowley may be too, to some degree. Crowley wastes no time in reclaiming his thigh, squeezing at the thick flesh. He bites his lip when Crowley lands a hard slap on the skin below his pelvis, watching the meat quiver with a hungry gaze that Aziraphale can see even through his dark sunglasses.

"Very good, angel."

Aziraphale revels in the praise, the overwhelming need to be desired starts to take over his fuzzy brain as Crowley moves to stroke his thigh again.

"Where do you want my hand?"

He grabs Crowley's hand from his thigh and guides it to his stiff member. Crowley's mouth hangs open, taking in the girth of him with his gaze. His fingers trail over Aziraphale's cock from the tip down to the base and back up again.

Aziraphale is just about ready to combust. "Crowley. Crowley, please. Please, _please_ ." He doesn't even care how pathetic he sounds. There is only Crowley's touch on his skin and the overwhelming sense of wanting to be _good_ for him.

Crowley lets out a low hum, almost fond as he turns his gaze back to Aziraphale's face.

"Pretty."

Aziraphale feels his face flare up even more. 

Crowley grabs the base of his cock, his fingers coating through the beading mess at the tip and sliding it over his shaft. The sound Aziraphale makes is almost incomprehensible. He can't ever remember making all these noises before. He can't ever recall a time when someone has touched him so reverently, with a firmness which seems to withhold just as much as it gives. He gazes at Crowley through half-opened lids, panting shamelessly while Crowley speeds up his strokes.

Crowley brings his other hand up to cup his cheek, his thumb tugging at Aziraphale's lip. 

"Suck."

Without preamble, Aziraphale parts his lips and lets his thumb plunge into the heat of his mouth. Crowley watches him, entranced, as he levels off the suction on his thumb, pushing it out with his tongue and sucking it back in again. He times the motion with the rhythm of Crowley's hand on him. Pleasure spikes up from deep in his gut. Crowley can see it on his face and he speeds up his strokes.

Aziraphale barely gets the chance to warn him before he falls apart with a loud yelp, releasing Crowley's thumb from his mouth as his orgasm shakes him all over. The buildup is too much, and he pulses several times in Crowley's grasp, sticky cum squirting out of him and coating the back of Crowley's hand as well as his own thighs.

His head heaves down in the wake of his release, and his gaze is caught on the tent inside Crowley's trousers.

"Crowley, I-"

He is cut off with a hand at the back of his head, grasping his hair and forcing him to look up. Aziraphale could see his own dazed, slightly terrified reflection on Crowley's glasses.

"Ask _permission_ ," Crowley barks.

He gasps at the piercing thrill that spreads through his body. The pain from the back of his head keeps him wide awake as he speaks.

"May I please touch you?"

Crowley's hand in his hair relaxes and starts petting him. "Alright."

Aziraphale sighs in relief, his hands going straight for Crowley's belt.

"But not with your hands," adds Crowley, pushing on Aziraphale's shoulders until he's kneeling on the carpeted floor. He is pinned in place by Crowley's knees.

Aziraphale stares at him, wide-eyed while Crowley removes his own belt and opens up his fly. His erection springs free from the constraints. Aziraphale's mouth waters at the sight of his cock, long and lean like the rest of him. Not as fat as Aziraphale's, but longer and very beautifully sculpted. 

"You've quite a mouth on you," Crowley mumbles fondly, his voice low and slurring words together. Crowley pets his hair once again and he pushes into his palm. "I bet you give great head."

Aziraphale feels another spark of arousal, the urge to please Crowley once again becoming too hard to ignore. He opens his mouth, waiting.

Crowley guides his cock into his mouth, and Aziraphale sets himself to work immediately. He performs the same ministrations he did on Crowley's thumb which the redhead seemed to like. It's a bit harder, his mouth needing more stretch. The tip of Crowley's cock brushes the back of his throat and he takes in a deep breath to keep down his gag reflex. The hand on his head guides his movements gently while he explores every inch of the hard length with his tongue, searching for Crowley's preferred spots.

Crowley moans low and thrusts into his mouth, his head tilting backwards. "Fuck. Holy shit, angel. Y'feel.... feel so good. You're so good at this."

Aziraphale hums at the praise. There's something about bringing Crowley to near incoherency that spurs him on further. He picks up in pace and eagerness. A flicker of pride courses through him when Crowley's thighs begin to convulse by his sides, and Aziraphale knows he is close.

"You were _made_ to suck cock, angel," Crowley babbles, awestruck now. Aziraphale keeps his gaze up, transfixed by the sight of Crowley becoming wholly undone just from his mouth. "Gonna cum. I'm gonna - in you..."

His words fade into a raspy, drawn out moan as he releases in Aziraphale's mouth, hot cum filling him up. Aziraphale takes him in as deep as it would go so that his seed slides easily into his throat. He maintains his suction as Crowley's cock twitches on his tongue, and he doesn't stop sucking until he's sure Crowley's all wrung out, his member going soft and limp against the inside of his cheek.

"Ahh..." Crowley releases a strangled groan. 

Aziraphale begins to feel the stirrings of exhaustion and he lazily presses his cheek onto Crowley's thigh.

"Rest now, my angel." Crowley pulls him up by his arms, hauling him to rest back up on the sofa. Aziraphale thinks he feels lips press against his forehead, but he can't be certain. He's being pushed back to lie down against the cushions, and the world finally stops shifting as he closes his eyes.

Crowley seems to slink off the sofa, the dip on the cushions from his weight being removed. Aziraphale wonders where he's going, but is too tired to ask or even to move.

The night stretches on, but Aziraphale, sated and in a state of bliss, drifts off into a dreamless sleep, leaving all the questions and uncertainties for a more sober Aziraphale to handle in the morning.

*****

_The way I (Az) actually googled "david tennant suit" to look for[the perfect outfit](https://www.reddit.com/r/davidtennant/comments/1fc6j7/david_in_a_black_velvet_suit_because_the_man/) that Crowley wears in that last scene lmao_

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change is inevitable— Aziraphale realizes this with sharp, frightening clarity. He also remembers that it's much easier to deal with when there's a hand to hold.

_Aziraphale was eight years old when he first developed a crush on Anthony Crowley._

_In the summer of 1991, he and his family moved from the busy city of Manchester to the suburban town of Tadfield. For the young boy, this new place looked nothing short of a fairy tale. It was a quintessential English village surrounded by lush forests and unkept meadows. Aziraphale fell in love with the place instantly._

_It took them a few days to settle into their new home, with a million and one boxes to unpack. Throughout, he only got a glimpse of his neighbours once or twice. As far as he knew at that time, most of those neighbours were elderly or the parents of children who were already off in university— that is, except for the family living directly in front of them. They had yet to introduce themselves, but his mother told him on their first day that he was lucky there was a boy around his age living on the same street. He got a proper look at him a few days later when he was looking out the living room window, just peeking one eye between the curtains. He was a ginger, a bit taller than him, and had what looked like a permanent scowl on his face. Suddenly, he didn’t feel lucky at all._

_Even so, any preconceived notions of what this boy was like were thrown out the window when Aziraphale actually met him._

_It had been a week since his family had moved in when he saw him again. In all honesty, he was worried about what their first encounter would be like. Suffice it to say, he didn’t expect_ _this_ _. He didn’t expect to peek out his bedroom window to see the redhead lying down on the bench in front of his house, eyes closed. Aziraphale squinted. Was he snoring? It was a sunny day. Scratch that, it was scorching hot outside; how did he manage to fall asleep there?_

_The blond was baffled, to say the least. Without thinking twice, he rushed downstairs with his umbrella and made his way across the street to the sleeping boy._

_“Here,” he murmured softly, extending the opened umbrella to shield him from the sun. “Some shade! All better now.”_

_To Aziraphale’s horror, the other boy’s face scrunched up instantaneously. “What the?” He began groggily, before finally opening his eyes to look up with understandable confusion. “Who are you?”_

_He jumped a little at the question. “I’m. Well, I’m your new neighbour!” he babbled nervously, clutching onto the umbrella’s handle for dear life. “I saw you were asleep and got worried you might get sunburnt.”_

_The other raised a brow curiously, but then his mouth quirked into an amused smile. He didn’t seem scary, Aziraphale decided. Not one bit._

_“It’s nice to meet you then, neighbour,” he chortled, getting to his feet right away. “The name’s Anthony Crowley. You?”_

_The young boy beamed, worries dissipating at once. “Aziraphale.”_

_Crowley nodded, gaze growing fonder by the minute. “Alright then. How ‘bout I buy you some ice cream as thanks?”_

_“As thanks?”_

_“Yeah, and I can show you around the village after too,” Crowley continued, gently taking the umbrella from him and holding it up for the both of them. “What do you say, hm?”_

_Ah yes, the first glimpses of a knight in shining armor. And Aziraphale was immediately besotted. With a shy nod, he stepped under the shade and let the other boy lead the way._

_They became best friends rather quickly. At first glance, it may have seemed like an unlikely friendship, but their differences were never a problem for them. In a multitude of ways, they complemented each other. Where one was lacking, the other was sure to fill in the gaps._

_And all of this progressed in the midst of Aziraphale’s infatuation. For the most part, he was able to keep his feelings at bay, until they were nothing but a distant niggling in his chest. It shouldn’t be a problem, he used to convince himself. They would fade one day. One way or another. Only they didn’t. Crowley was too easy to fall for and too difficult to get over._

_In retrospect, he should have seen it coming. How could he not develop a long-term crush on the boy who swept him off his feet the first time they met? Crowley, who would go out of his way to protect him, and make him feel safe and cared for from the very beginning._

_There were too many after school hangouts and late night calls in the span of six years for him to miss it._

_How could he not have feelings for the boy who readily welcomed him into his home during a storm when his parents were out of town for the weekend— who took his hands and squeezed them when each roll of thunder sent him into a state of panic?_

_He might as well accept it. And he did so graciously, on that very night._

_“You're so kind to me,” the angel sniffled. He was bundled up under the blankets, save for his hands that were still very much in the other boy's grasp._

_“Nah, I'm a meanie,” he shrugged, but there was a cheekiness to it anyway. “Y'know I've got a reputation to uphold.”_

_Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “You're not mean to me though.”_

_“Well, of course I'm not,” Crowley deadpanned, pulling one hand away. The younger boy couldn’t hide the look of disappointment that flashed through his face. But then the very same hand reached over to boop his nose instead._

_“Silly angel, you're the exception. You know that.”_

_Aziraphale was fourteen years old when he realized he was in love with Anthony Crowley._

_He realized this as they were curled into each other’s space on a bed in the older boy’s room. A safe space from raging thunderstorms and the rest of the world._

_It happened while Crowley was holding his hands and promising that everything was going to be okay._

_The thing is, they had held hands a few times before already. Neither of them ever minded the physical touch, and so he never thought of it as too big of a deal. But for some reason, this time was different. He had the other boy’s fingers slotted in between his own, and it just felt so nice and warm like this. As if there was something between their palms other than the dampness of their combined sweat. Something so very important to the angel. And he found himself thinking how awfully empty it would feel if Crowley ever let go._

_“Oh. Oh no,” Aziraphale whispered to himself as he looked over at his best friend’s sleeping face. His eyes trailed over his messy red hair, and perfect nose covered in freckles, and parted lips with just a bit of drool glistening on one corner of his mouth. (Something that could almost be comical if he weren't so enthralled by how mesmerizing he looked anyway.)_

_It was a few hours later, and he hadn’t been able to fall asleep yet, not with the weight of his realization finally catching up to him and making his heart pound painfully in his chest. He couldn’t help but wonder if his stutter-stop heartbeat was loud enough to wake him up._

_Thankfully it wasn’t, not with the storm out; the pitter-patter of rain on the windowpane and rooftop was oddly beginning to comfort him through this whole ordeal. It was pointless to worry about right now, especially if he could just be living in the moment. So he sighed and snuggled just a bit closer to the boy who may very well be the love of his life, comforted by the subsiding rainfall, soft sheets, and the faint security of their barely clasped fingers._

_For the time being, everything felt perfect. And for everything else that would come after — well, the young boy hoped to the heavens that he would be properly equipped to deal with it._

\---

As a rare book dealer and antiquarian, Aziraphale has had his fair share of awkward conversations. He has, on more than one occasion, received the odd request for a peculiar book or manual, and it was always heavy-laden, taxing business for him to inform a customer that no, he did _not_ possess that very rare book about sex positions they were looking for. Aside from that, he has also had to refuse several attempts to ask him out by a few leering older men who either got too comfortable or got the _very_ wrong impression of him. It never got any easier, even with repetition. He always has to be prim and proper, ever polite in his refusal.

None of those encounters, however, prepared him for the peak level of awkwardness that awaits his very naked self when he wakes up sprawled out on his worn comfy sofa with a brain-splitting headache, streams of sunlight stabbing him in the eyeballs.

He takes a look around and tries to sit up, but his skull threatens to cave into the cavernous space where his brain is supposed to be, so he lies still for a moment and rolls on his side to peer over the edge.

And just to make things more interesting, he finds Crowley - dressed only in his half-buttoned silk shirt, lying face down on the carpet and wholly dead to the world.

Aziraphale doesn't know whether the ringing in his ears is coming from the hangover or from sheer mortification, which threatens to double in amount when his eyes fall on Crowley's bare ass cheeks, painted gold by natural light like an art piece accidentally created by Van Gogh, one _very_ drunken starry night.

What on earth happened last night?

And it comes to him, in bursts of hot flashes. Glimpses of skin on skin. In the huskiness of Crowley's voice and the many, _many_ pleasured moans he so shamelessly made.

Oh _fuck_.

He needs to wake Crowley. 

He sits up, rubbing his eyes and shifting on unsteady feet. "Crowley." His jaw is heavy when he tries to move it, and his tongue is bitterly dry. "Crowley? Wake up."

"Ngggrh..." Crowley starts to stir on the carpet.

And then it dawns on him that they are both still naked. The intense flash of panic that rises in his throat is almost comical as he clamours for any way to cover himself mere seconds before Crowley's eyes shoot open.

"'Zira..phale?" Crowley rolls on his back, his eyes blinking against invasive light once, before a flurry of black velvet sails through the air and smacks him in the face.

"Oof!"

"Oh, dear! I'm sorry!" Aziraphale edges around him on the floor, tiptoeing to gather up all his clothes. "You're - I'll... I'll let you get decent!"

Crowley's hand comes up to clutch his jacket from his face, and before he can pull it down, Aziraphale makes a mad dash out of the room with his rumpled clothes pressed desperately against his crotch.

Off the list of the most horrifyingly awkward encounters, he would dare claim this one takes the cake.

He's hyperventilating by the time he reaches his flat upstairs. The motions of tearing through his wardrobe and putting on a fresh set of clothes feel almost foreign to him. His cheeks flush just from the mere recollection of what transpired from the night before. How much have they had to drink, exactly? He wasn't even sure he'd been that wasted, but only copious amounts of alcohol would have gotten Crowley to do all that with _him_.

He had _sex_ with Anthony Crowley.

Oh dear, what a mess. He's been very fortunate to meet Crowley again after all these years and rekindle their friendship somehow. Sure, Aziraphale has a ton of buried feelings for the older man, but that's almost like background noise now. He's long since given up on attempting to act on them, fully convinced that Crowley will simply never see him in that light.

But the events of last night rather mucked things up a bit, didn't they? Aziraphale fans his flaming cheeks and slaps himself awake in front of a mirror. Cruddy butterfingers - he looks abhorrent. His eyes are puffy, with dark bags underneath, and in this light one would think _he's_ the older one between him and Crowley. To think that he will have to face him looking like this is truly one of the cruelest twists of fate he's ever had to deal with, but there's simply no other way it can be done.

When he returns downstairs, Crowley is pacing around the backroom, locks of copper hair sticking out wildly from having run his hands through them. He grinds to a halt when Aziraphale steps back in.

He's done up his shirt, but it's only half-tucked into his tight trousers. The black velvet jacket is back to hanging limply on the sofa - an anchor, if you will. A fixed point of interest that seems to mock them about the contrast between last night and today.

"Aziraphale." 

To think, after all they've done, that this is the first time he's seeing Crowley without his sunglasses since their reunion. His eyes are wide open, cautious, and a little bit frightened.

"H-hi." Aziraphale bites his lip, shifting on his feet. "I think we need to talk."

"Figured you would say something like that." Crowley heaved a resigned sigh. "You wanna sit down for this?"

Aziraphale shakes his head.

He can't ever remember seeing Crowley look this vulnerable.

"I owe you an apology," says Crowley, his mouth turned down and disapproving. "What... What I did to you last night, that was unforgivable. I'm sorry. I don't know if you can ever look past it, but I swear I - "

"Crowley, stop." Aziraphale can't take any more of hearing Crowley talk about how last night's events disgust him. He knows very well that, had he not been under the influence, he never would have considered ravishing Aziraphale in any form. His chest aches even though he's long since resigned himself to the fact. It's a lot harder to swallow now that he's had a taste of how good it would be. 

"Angel, you were drunk. I took advantage of you."

"We were both drunk," Aziraphale says forcefully. He won’t let Crowley take all the blame in this. "And I never made any move to stop you. I'm certain if I had, you would've stopped immediately. We were both in the wrong."

Crowley's face crumbles into frustration and regret, and it's a piercing stab to Aziraphale's heart, already rendered frail by his long-simmering affection towards him.

A tear threatens to spill from his eye, but he holds it down. 

"Still, I shouldn't have - " Crowley looks around and sighs. "I shouldn't have done that. The way I acted, I mean. It's all a huge - "

"Mistake, then?" Aziraphale has to beat him to it. He doesn't think he can handle hearing Crowley say it first. "It was a mistake, I'm glad we agree."

They are both silent for a few minutes. 

"I should... Should probably go." Crowley moves to put his jacket back on. It's oddly reminiscent of their first meeting in this room, wherein Crowley was also devoid of pants, and Aziraphale is left with the same feeling of wondering whether he'll ever see him again. 

Aziraphale walks him to the door. "Be careful," he says, forcing a cheerful tone. "Bit of winds blowing out there."

"I'll be driving," Crowley replies, flippant. He stops at the door, just like that first time - and yet this situation is entirely different. "Look, Aziraphale, I understand if you never wanna see me again."

Aziraphale doesn't trust himself to speak, so he doesn't.

"But if you ever need anything. I'm here for you, for anything."

Aziraphale gives him a shaky smile. Of course. Crowley has always been there for him. 

"Mind how you go, then."

Crowley takes one last look at him, then turns around and disappears into his car.

Aziraphale is already dealing with a flurry of emotions, but before he deals with his newly broken heart, he has a headache to tend to.

  
  


***

By the time the queasiness leaves him, Aziraphale decides that he's entitled to close his shop for the day and go out to clear his head. The skies are a dark and heavy grey, with storm clouds looking not far off. There are mighty winds blowing, and it probably would be a better idea to stay indoors. But Aziraphale has always been a man of comfort, who clings to places and objects that has provided him that sense of attachment - of home. And right now, he simply cannot sit calmly inside his beloved bookshop without being reminded of the sour turn of events of his rendezvous with Crowley.

So he goes out, heads to his favorite Indian cuisine place and feasts on samosas and spicy curry. He heads over to St. James's and watches the ducks on the pond. There aren't a lot of people outdoors, but the few who are seem to be enjoying themselves enough. He thinks about what Crowley said, about always being there for him, and whether that might mean anything more than what he supposes.

It's a fanciful idea, really. Ever since they were kids, Crowley has never _not_ been there for him. He was there when Aziraphale first fell off his bike and put plaster on his cut knee. He was there when Aziraphale had been chased by some of the larger kids in the playground, and Crowley grabbed his hand and they both ran like their lives depended on it, until they had to stop because they were laughing so hard and laughing while running took up all their breaths. When Aziraphale went into his teens, Crowley was also there to talk to him about the wonders of Gothic novels and sci-fi films and the Golden Girls. There to take him out for lunches and dinners and ice cream on the park _(and Aziraphale has to wonder now just how much of Crowley's measly allowance he'd been spending on him)._

Because the fact was, Crowley had _always_ been there for every major event that happened in his life - right up until he wasn't. 

Aziraphale was fifteen, and already madly in love, when Crowley left for university and he had to learn how to pick up the broken pieces of his shattered heart.

Perhaps it's a little childish to be clinging to a memory like this, but again, Aziraphale is a man of comfort, and one of the earliest comforts he's ever gotten are all the times he got to spend with Crowley.

Now that Crowley suddenly came back into his life, it's all complicated. They already have a history together, and an attachment formed deeper on Aziraphale's part than his friend's. And that kind of behaviour, his urge to keep clinging onto that vestige of a happy memory might not be good for the Crowley who is now forty years old. It was easy to believe, when they first got reunited, that it would be the same. But the events of this morning only prove that Crowley today would no longer be as appreciative of Aziraphale’s urge to depend on him as he had been when they were kids.

Aziraphale, then, has to establish a life of his own. And that's easy enough. For the most part, he already has one. He just needs to learn to maintain that, and to keep himself from falling back into old habits especially where Crowley is concerned.

It's several hours after he left that the sky completely darkens, and it finally starts to drizzle. 

Aziraphale makes the journey back home before the downpour could get any worse. He can't keep avoiding his discomforts forever, after all. Briefly, he considers calling Crowley. Not that he knows what to tell him. Maybe just a short message to assure him that they are still on good terms, and that if Crowley will be willing to look past that one night, he would gladly maintain their friendship, still. 

In the end, though, he decides against it. His resolution to keep a short but safe distance from Crowley tells him that a phone call right now, so soon after such a strenuous event in their friendship, would only annoy him. Instead, he decides to wait a couple of days, and hopefully by then much of the awkwardness will have faded between them. With any luck, they can restore their friendship as though nothing had happened at all.

The state of events can be dynamic, with a few turbulences in between, but in the end everything falls back into their proper place. Aziraphale has full faith that his and Crowley's friendship will do the same.

And that's when he notices the sky, soot black, the air thick and heavy, emitting a pungent scent. Instincts raise alarms all over his body, and finally he turns into that one familiar corner, one which he's been to thousands of times, and finds half his bookshop engulfed by flames.

There are firetrucks blaring from up and down the block and people milling on the outskirts. Aziraphale rushes past the barrier and heads straight towards the entrance, only to be stopped by a fireman's firm grasp on his shoulder.

"Sir, are you the owner of this establishment?" 

Aziraphale is shocked. Speechless. The walls of his chest are constricting into himself. 

"Yes."

"Fire started a little ways down the block. Unfortunately got blown in your direction. We have it under control now, but there's gonna be some significant damage to yours, we expect."

His hands start to shake, wondering how much has already been burned, how much he can still salvage. His books! His precious books - they can't all have been burned, can they? Surely they'll be fine. They have to be fine.

A quick look to the side from which the fire originated shows mangled windows and blackened walls. 

"This part took in the worst, m'fraid," said the fireman, softly speaking as though Aziraphale looks like he will shatter any moment from now. "You've a flat up there, I think?"

Aziraphale nods.

"Yeah, that's gone. Sorry. Could've been worse, though. If it had gotten to the books the fire would've razed right through. Lucky we've held it back though. Most of the shop's still there."

 _Most._ And yet he will forever have to live with the memory of having seen the partially charred remains of his precious, stubbornly unchanging home. 

He sinks to his knees on the pavement, trembling uncontrollably. 

After a while, a few neighbours are kind enough to escort him to a nearby bakery, but he finds the lights too bright, almost mocking him. He plops himself down on a seat in the darkest corner of the room and takes out his phone with numb fingers, dials a few times before getting to the correct contact.

The line is picked up after six rings - the longest six rings he's ever had to listen to.

_"Anthony J. Crowley. I'm driving, so make this quick."_

Aziraphale feels his heart sink.

"C-Crowley? I'm very... I'm sorry, I didn't know who - who else to call and I." His spiel is cut by a choking sob that rattles past his throat.

 _"Aziraphale?"_ Crowley's voice becomes louder, but also gentler. _"Angel, what's wrong?"_

"I don't - I was just, I'd gotten home..." He can't seem to make any complete sentences, and soon enough he's bursting into tears.

_"Angel. Angel, shhh. No, no, no. Please don't cry. Where are you? I'm in the car, I'll go to you right now."_

Aziraphale tells him the address.

_"Right. I'm not far. Can get to you in fifteen - make that ten minutes. Will you be okay on your own for now?"_

Aziraphale nods. Realising that Crowley can't see this, he speaks into the receiver. "F-fine." His heart is racing and his breaths are coming in very, very short gasps, and his face tingles from the lack of air. It seems all he can do is exhale, exhale, exhale. And when he attempts to suck in a breath, it cuts short, his lungs rejecting it and expelling it again.

 _"Angel, I'm almost there,"_ Crowley speaks in a soothing tone. _"But I need you to breathe. Can you do that for me?"_

"I-I don't... know."

_"Think of Tadfield. The meadow we used to hang out in. The nice forest. The sounds of crickets."_

Aziraphale closes his eyes and attempts to form the picture in his head.

_"You're just there, walking in the forest. Air's nice, isn't it? Deep breath in, angel."_

Aziraphale inhales.

_"You're doing great. Now let it out."_

Aziraphale lets it out. And he repeats the process. Again and again.

_"I'm almost there. Just looking for a place to park this thing."_

Aziraphale imagines that Crowley is with him, holding his hand.

When he opens his eyes again, Crowley is walking to his table. They lock eyes, and there must be something on his face that's very disconcerting, because Crowley immediately looks worried when he sees him.

He pulls up a chair beside Aziraphale, and it's as if everything else fades into the background. It's like being fourteen again, when he's had eyes on no one else but Crowley. He tries to give his friend a grateful smile, but his face is frozen. He can't get anything to move and whatever does move does so beyond his control.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley's voice is so soothing. Very careful. "I saw the smoke along the way. Did your shop burn down?"

He nods slowly.

"Oh. Oh, angel." Crowley takes him into his arms, running a hand into his hair. Aziraphale sags into the embrace, his cheek pressed against Crowley's shoulder, breathing in the scent from his collar.

They don't speak. Probably because neither of them knows for sure what to say. But Crowley does continue to hold him, his arms going even tighter, rocking him a little, until the trembling stops completely and his breathing slows to a relaxed pace.

"I don't know what to do," he tells Crowley, voice muffled into his collar. "I don't know where to go, either. I don't know, I don't know."

"Shhhh." Crowley runs a soothing hand down his back. He's being embraced so tightly, cocooned entirely by the lanky man. And he finds himself wishing that he wouldn't let go. "You need to rest. Come on."

Crowley pulls back, leaving Aziraphale feeling empty. He's standing and Crowley extends a hand towards him. 

When Aziraphale takes his hand, it's as though he's fourteen again. 

He lets Crowley lead him outside and back onto the streets where his Bentley is parked. Aziraphale still cannot fully process his surroundings, but he deposits himself into the passenger's seat - mostly because it's the closest he can get to being at home now.

Crowley drives with his hand tense on the wheel, and Aziraphale can't find it in him to stare out the windshield or through the windows, where the moving scenery would be. He turns on his side, as much as his seatbelt would allow, tucks the corner of his shoulder on the exquisite leather back of his seat, and stares longingly at Crowley's profile.

Crowley notices him staring. "You alright, angel?"

"Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you to mine." At the rise of tense silence that follows, he quickly adds, "I-I mean, I just assumed-since you didn't have anywhere to go and-and... I have a spare bedroom. You can crash in there, you know, for the time being. I just."

"Just what, Crowley?"

"I need to know you're safe." 

Aziraphale is too emotionally exhausted to ponder too much on that, but a sense of calm tides over his frazzled nerves. 

"If it isn't too much trouble."

"Of course it's no trouble," Crowley replies instantly, a frown set in place. 

"I just thought, well, after what happened this morning - "

"You think something like that will stop me from taking care of you? Angel, this isn't some trivial thing. Your house just burned down."

Aziraphale aches at the blunt reminder. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry? Stop that, it isn't your fault." Crowley pauses for a bit, as if hesitating on something, then continues. "Look. I know we've not seen each other in a while, but. How we were before, I like to think that you don't think nothing of that now. I can still look out for you, whenever you need it."

Were Aziraphale in a more composed state, he would have outright laughed at the mere suggestion of thinking nothing of the precious childhood and first blossoms of hopeless romance he's never fully stopped clinging to.

The car slows to a stop, and when Aziraphale finally gathers enough of his senses to look away from Crowley, he sees that they're in a carpark.

Crowley switches off the engine, and Aziraphale slowly makes his way out of the car, the dull grey lights of the carpark leaving him in disoriented wits. When he's fully stepped out, Crowley is already there at his side.

"I live in the penthouse," explains Crowley. "S'not much, but you'll at least be comfortable. We can go back for some of your things tomorrow."

Aziraphale already dreads the idea of having to go back to that sight.

"I suppose it must be done," he says tonelessly.

He's taken aback when Crowley grabs his hand, his long fingers wrapping across Aziraphale's palm, squeezing firmly. His focus narrows down to that one touch. A strong tether to keep everything else from flying off.

"I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you."

Crowley tugs on his hand, and they begin the trek up to his flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Things are developing (reigniting?) in Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship and we hope you're enjoying the ride so far. Kudos and comments are really appreciated. <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets to see Crowley's flat, as well as a glimpse into how he's been living his life for the past couple of decades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's finally back with an update!

_As the years went by, Aziraphale learned that time could be such a cruel and terrible thing. Something that crept up on him in the most subtle, unsuspecting ways until he was hit with the harsh reality that this little fairy tale really won't last forever._

_Just as he finally turned thirteen and started to get a hang of secondary school, Crowley was already preparing for his GCSE exams. A telltale reminder that one day he'd graduate and the blond wouldn't be able to wave at him in the hallway anymore. That he wouldn't get to sneak out with him to the courtyard during lunch period nor walk home with him after classes ever again._

_Yet time was very kind to the likes of Anthony Crowley. He grew from a gangly kid to a lanky yet charming sixteen year old. Unfairly attractive and several leagues ahead of him, if Aziraphale were to describe the other boy himself. He'd be lying if he said he didn't get even a tiny bit jealous when he'd see all the love letters he'd get on Valentine's Day or hear girls giggling when the redhead would greet them as they walked down the hall together. Though it was a feeling he would tamp down immediately after, quickly reminding himself that their friendship—their closeness—meant more to him than this crush he'd been harboring for a few years._

_In the blink of an eye, it was the evening of Crowley's school formal. A few days before, he had told the younger boy that he was taking a girl from his class as his date. She was a pretty brunette with green eyes and a sweet smile. It hurt to think how cute they'd look as a couple._

_That night, the younger boy excused himself from the dinner table early, took a nice warm shower, and curled up in bed. He told himself he had no right to be upset. But trying to stay rational felt like a pointless exercise when his heart was being too stubborn for its own good._

_So he resigned himself sulking under his blanket, imagining all the fun the other must be having at that dance. Wondering if he was dancing with that girl— if he held her hand and liked it._

_Then he heard it— a soft tapping noise against his window._

_"Psssst. 'Ziraphale!" Someone called out to him from the front of his house. It was a voice he was sure he’d always recognize without fail, without any semblance of doubt. The younger boy sat up immediately, heart racing as he rushed over to peer outside. What he saw was entirely unexpected: Crowley was throwing little rocks at his window, like a prince about to rescue a damsel in distress. Aziraphale was transported back into his fantasy in an instant._

_"What on earth are you doing?!” he asked, equal parts thrilled and frantic as he slid the window open._

_Crowley smiled, dashing as ever in that crisp tuxedo of his. It was a rented suit, he knew that. But that didn't mean he couldn't look like straight-up royalty anyway._

_“Visiting you. S’that alright?"_

_He wanted to laugh. It was always alright._

_That was how Aziraphale found himself tiptoeing down the stairs a quarter before midnight, unlocking his front door, and sneaking Crowley into his room. It all felt rather roguish for him to do, and under any other circumstances he wouldn’t have dared break the rules. Whether it be in school or at home, he always tried his best to stay obedient and not let anyone down._

_But tonight had to be an exception, especially since Crowley decided, out of all the things he could do after that dance, to come back to him. Even if he could have spent time with his date instead. For a split second, he let himself imagine that his friend was here to finally sweep him off his feet and offer him a life they could spend together in some faraway castle. And it would have been perfect and worth all the affliction caused by his ever-growing infatuation for the other._

_“Okay,” the younger boy said after finally closing the door behind him and twisting the lock. “Why visit tonight though, Crowley?”_

_"Ehhh, my date and I got bored so I brought her back to her place. Then thought I'd stop by for a bit before heading home. In case you missed me," he teased, tossing his coat over his study desk and flopping down on the chair._

_The blond rolled his eyes, sitting back on the bed with his knees to his chest. A barrier of some sort, to keep himself from moving closer to the other boy (like a sailor to a siren’s call, or Icarus to the sun— something so easy to do and yet just as destructive). Of course he missed him, but it wasn't something he could easily admit anymore. He knew his friend was as dense as a rock but the thought of divulging even a sliver of his true feelings terrified him to no end._

_"Do you like her?" Aziraphale asked instead, bracing himself for the affirmative answer he was so sure he'd hear._

_The older boy shook his head. "Ah. No. We just went as friends."_

_There was something left unsaid there, but Aziraphale was too nervous to probe further. A few seconds of tense silence passed._

_"Mmmrghh. I don't think I'm really interested in girls that way, to be honest," Crowley confessed, fingers drumming nervously on his lap. "Dunno. Still trying to figure it out."_

_Aziraphale blinked hard, trying to grasp what he meant. He had never seen Crowley like this. Throughout their friendship, the older boy always presented himself as someone so sure of himself. So confident and unabashed. Now he was seeing him without pretense. And while he was grateful that he was being more honest, he couldn’t help but wonder what he was so scared of._

_Then everything caught up to him and he understood._

_Oh._

_"Oh - I see," he whispered, reaching over to hold the other's forearm. After a heartbeat, he squeezed it reassuringly. "I hope things get clearer for you, then."_

_Crowley exhaled shakily, his body slumping as if a weight had finally left his shoulders. "So you're cool with it, angel?"_

_Aziraphale nodded. He wanted to let him know he wasn't alone— that he understood where he was coming from with such depth that it scared him too. But those were dangerous waters and he needed to tread carefully. There were too many risks involved. So he smiled and settled with another response, something safer but just as sincere: "Why wouldn't I be?"_

_Ultimately, he wanted Crowley to be happy. And he wanted to be the one who would make him happy, but that's a daydream he'd need to get over some day. His dearest friend deserved so much. So much more than what he could ever offer._

_That was okay. He could live with that. He’d have to live with that._

_Whoever Crowley would one day fall in love with and whisk away— Aziraphale was convinced he'd be the luckiest guy in the world._

___

The first thing Aziraphale notes about Crowley's home in Mayfair is that it's extremely posh.

If there could be a place that is the polar opposite of his warm and cluttered bookshop, it would be this. It's not just that it looks like it's owned by someone wealthy, it's also evident that it's newly purchased. Everything clean and unstained, each object carefully decided on and arranged in so artful a fashion. All of it follows a distinct monochrome look, with walls and furniture of dark grey and accents of black.

It’s interesting and beautiful in a way that is just a tad intimidating, much like its owner.

The second thing Aziraphale notes is that Crowley lives alone.

He is surrounded by large glass windows framed by curtains of black silk. A few of them seem to open out to spacious balconies, giving a view of the entire city bathed in the calmness of the night.

He is led off to the living room, where Crowley urges him to sit on the black leather couch. "Stay there for a bit," he tells Aziraphale before letting go of his hand.

Crowley disappears off into a wide hallway with bare walls, where Aziraphale assumes the bedrooms would be in. He knows he must look out of place, but the flat is just so _Crowley_ that he instantly finds comfort in it. As though the bare grey walls and tall glass windows provide more of Crowley's protection. It feels _safe._

"Angel?"

Aziraphale turns towards the sound of Crowley's voice. He's standing on the edge of the hallway he went into, leaning on the corner with one shoulder. His stance is nonchalant, but there's still concern written on his face. 

"Yes, dear?"

"Come here."

Aziraphale gravitates towards that voice, and crossing the expanse of the flat to end up at Crowley's side is only a natural act, merely following the pull of a natural force.

"Take this." Crowley pushes a pile of fabric onto his arms. "Fit might not be all right, but you'll be more comfortable. We can get you new clothes tomorrow."

"Oh." Aziraphale looks down at his arms. He's been handed a cotton t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. It's mismatched and the fabric is stretched out. It's Crowley's. He hugs it close to his chest. "Thank you."

"Shower's down the hall here. Help yourself to anything in there." Crowley points to where the hall terminates - a set of double doors with ornate silver handles. Every touch of this flat feels luxurious. 

"Thank you."

"Your room is off that way, but mine is just here, if you need me." He jerks a thumb off to the side, and Aziraphale sees a set of more glass windows and sliding doors, revealing a carefully designed bedroom in its interior. 

Moonlight shines from another balcony off to the side, landing with finesse on a large bed covered with smooth dark sheets. Aziraphale feels a touch of warmth in his chest. Crowley has always loved falling asleep to the view provided by a large window. He loves feeling close to the stars.

"I really don't know how I can repay you for - "

He's startled by a growl from Crowley's throat. For a moment, he fears he may have upset him. Then, Crowley's hand is on his chin, tipping up his face so he can look directly into his eyes.

He tries very hard not to think of what happened the last time their faces were this close.

"None of that, Aziraphale." There's a lot that underlies his tone. Much more than Aziraphale can process in his current state, but he listens anyway, because it's Crowley, and Crowley has always told him important things. 

Crowley's thumb brushes his lower lip, an unconscious action surely, but he wants to melt into the touch.

"Don't thank me for every bloody thing. When you need something, you come to me and I'll work it out. I don't ever want to hear you thanking me like you don't deserve to be taken care of."

In his dazed state, Aziraphale nods.

Crowley drops his hand. He misses the small touch until it reappears as a soft press on the small of his back. 

They cross the kitchen to get to the guest bedroom. It isn't encased in transparent walls like Crowley's room is, but its doors follow the same ornate feel of the bathroom. It's a lot smaller as well, and the furnishings feel a little snug. Aziraphale decides that he likes it better that way. 

As soon as he sees the bed, the exhaustion from the day’s events finally courses through him.

"You've had a long day, angel."

Aziraphale indeed knows that he has. 

"Will you be..."

"I'll just be in my room. Feel free to come in anytime." 

Aziraphale can't fathom the luck he's had at finding a friend like Crowley, and at finding him a second time as well.

"I'll leave you to it, now." There's something on his face that looks a bit like he's debating on something, and just as Aziraphale is about to force it out of him, he takes a step back and offers a small smile. "Good night."

That night, Aziraphale wears Crowley's clothes and wraps himself up in Crowley's sheets. He's too exhausted to cry, so he doesn't. There's a brief moment when all he feels is this all-consuming want to be with Crowley, in his bed, and curl up into his friend's side.

Crowley told him to come if he needed anything. If he were to do that right now, walk up to his room, lift up Crowley's sheets and nestle alongside his him - how would he react? 

He doesn’t want to think too hard about the possibilities. With his eyes closed and the scent of Crowley surrounding him, it's easy enough to pretend.

But all this lasts only a moment, and then he drifts off to dreamless sleep.

***

"I was wondering whether you'd want to check in on your shop today," Crowley asks Aziraphale the next day over their breakfast of toast and slightly overcooked eggs (the only contents of Crowley's bare kitchen).

Aziraphale looks over at his friend. Crowley's eyes are tired, faintly red like he's gotten no sleep at all. 

"Are you alright?" Aziraphale asks, ignoring Crowley's question. "Did you even sleep last night?"

Crowley waves off his concern. "I'm fine. This sort of happens sometimes."

He wonders if that's his fault somehow, and a sinking feeling forms in his gut. He didn't intend on being a burden on Crowley, nor to impose on his generosity. No matter how much Crowley tells him that he's more than willing to take care of him, Aziraphale is in no way his responsibility.

"Anyway. I can drive you to Soho if you want."

Truthfully, Aziraphale still isn't sure whether he can bear to see his now-tattered home, but there's no one else to look after the old place. He will need to gather all his courage for it.

"Yes, please," he says, determined. "If you would be so kind."

  
***

There isn't much of Aziraphale's personal belongings that can be retrieved from what remains of the bookshop. His flat, after all, has taken most of the damage. He ends up with a box filled with a few important documents and leaves everything else behind. Looking around, he thinks it will take at least a couple of months to restore this place and make it fully operational. Even so, many of his priceless rare editions have been charred at the edges, others rendered barely readable. And with simply no other way to replace them, he wonders whether the place will ever be the same again.

There’s still plenty of work to be done. He’ll need to make an inventory of the remaining books and the lost ones as well, just to see if he can get others as replacements. He’ll also need to oversee the repairs. But at present, he’s too much of a ghost of his former self. He only wants to grieve the bookshop that had been so happily his before he has to make space in his heart for the altered one that awaits.

"Anything else you need, angel?" Crowley asks in a gentle tone, as though he’s witnessing a private moment and is afraid of interrupting it.

"I'm afraid I will need to get some new clothes.”

Crowley nods. "Right, then."

They make their way back to Crowley's car, but before Aziraphale can get in, he looks back at the remnants of his shop one more time with a wistful heavy sigh.

Crowley bounds up to his side and stays silent. He takes Aziraphale's hand in his, squeezing firmly. Aziraphale is grateful.

"This was my home for so long." Crowley rubs soothing circles into the back of his palm and it somehow gives him the courage to say more. "I will always know what happened to it now. Don't think it will ever be the same."

He locks his eyes on the antique facade of his beloved home, his hand still in Crowley's grasp, acting as the anchor that it has always been to him. Aziraphale wonders what he must be thinking at the moment. Crowley will never fully understand just how much this place meant to him, how it has been his constant and given him a vibrant life and purpose. To Crowley, he might even appear to be overly sentimental. 

He wonders whether Crowley will speak, and if he will, what words he has to say to him.

In response, Crowley gives only a soft hum, and presses a light kiss to the top of his head.

***

"You can't seriously be thinking of buying that."

Aziraphale gives him a hard stare and piles his arms with even more of the oatmeal-coloured cardigans. "They are on _sale_ , Crowley. And while I confess that this is out of my usual style, given the circumstances, one cannot be too particular."

Crowley groans, plucking out a sleeve from the pile he's holding. "But look, Aziraphale. This one has a bleeding hole in it!" 

Aziraphale actually failed to take notice of the hole, but it’s too late now to retreat from his point. "And I'm sure it will still make a charming cardigan once that gets repaired."

"This is ridiculous. _You_ are ridiculous." Crowley snatches all the clothes from his grasp and throws them back into the monstrous pile he obtained them from. "Come on. I'm taking you somewhere else."

Aziraphale barely has a chance to protest before Crowley has his arm in a death grip and he's being dragged away to the exit.

***

"Crowley, I'm not sure I should even be here," Aziraphale mutters self-consciously as they stride past a block of very intimidating shops to enter the premises of the _most_ intimidating one. He tightens his hold on Crowley's hand while the older man saunters ahead of him. "These stores don't seem very nice to people."

"Angel, stores are _never_ nice to people, they're nice to credit cards."

The store manager, a middle-aged man in a sharp maroon suit, approaches them with a full-width, overly eager smile that is just a tad unnerving.

"Ah, Mr. Crowley! It is very nice to see you again. You didn't tell us you were coming in today! I would've called for your tailor."

"Not here for myself today. Was thinking you'd have something for _him_." He nods his head towards Aziraphale, standing slack-jawed by his side and still making a near comical attempt to take everything in.

The manager turns his head towards Aziraphale as if he's just registered his presence. Aziraphale has gotten well at reading people, and he sees that unnerving smile wither by a fraction.

He is well aware of the _contrast_ between him and Crowley. With his gleaming crimson curls and slender dark coat, Crowley is a far cry from Aziraphale's rather comfier taste. Really, he never should've bothered taking him here. And though he thinks Crowley a considerate friend, Aziraphale is also too embarrassed to tell him that he can never afford to buy anything from a place like this.

"Well, of course, we might have a few," says the manager, shifting his gaze back to Crowley.

"I'm not talking about _a few._ " Aziraphale is taken aback by the snark in his tone. He is just about to suggest that they leave when Crowley brandishes out his black credit card, staring down at the man with a snarl. "Give him anything and everything he wants."

The manager's eyes go wide as saucers. He shifts between looking at the two of them until, finally, his gaze lands on their still entwined hands.

"O-oh! Yes, um. Right this way, sir!"

A couple of other attendants come right up to Aziraphale, and with slight panic, Aziraphale looks back at the redhead, who is now scrolling through a bunch of emails on his phone.

"Crowley, I can't possibly - "

He looks up briefly and locks eyes with him. "Please? Aziraphale, just let me? You deserve to have nice things."

It's probably that soft look that Crowley gives him, a look that is so different from those he wears when talking to everyone else, that tugs at Aziraphale's heartstrings and gets him to agree. For the next hour he is smothered in cream coats and silk ties and luxurious tartan-lined jackets. All while Crowley sprawls himself out on one of the lounge chairs and continues to scroll through his phone.

***

Aziraphale is wrapped in thick cotton pyjamas. By all accounts it should be comfortable, but instead he finds that it lacks a bit of stretch. The waistband of his bottoms digs just a little harshly into his stomach and the fabric is pulled taut over his shoulders. This isn't necessarily an indication that he obtained the wrong size when he shopped for it earlier that day, but merely the result of him wearing something that lacks the wear and tear of his usual clothing. It is, however, in his usual preferred style. Dark blue mixed with sandy brown arranged in a checkered pattern. It could easily have been indistinguishable from the other clothes he has ( _had_ , rather) in his wardrobe, and yet he finds that he was much more comfortable the night before, when he was wearing Crowley’s old clothing instead.

He exits the bathroom, running a towel over his damp hair. The shower helped to clear his thoughts a bit. And while it was difficult to return to the bookshop and to see it in that sorry state, he ponders on how much harder it might have been without Crowley with him. There's something about the lanky redhead that always feels like home to him, ever since they were children. And that something shows no signs of dissipating even after the passing of more than two decades.

With the sun having already set, the flat is dim. It's intricately designed, but with many open spaces - a true bachelor's abode, one would say. He doesn't spot Crowley in his room. Without him, it feels awfully empty.

He crosses over to the living area, everything still and silent around him. Briefly, he wonders if Crowley suddenly left without telling him, until he turns towards the balcony and spots him, smothered in a sea of verdant green.

Crowley has his focus elsewhere, his back turned to Aziraphale and the latter can't seem to tear his gaze away. His tight black henley showcases a narrow waist and generous toned muscle. The shadows of his defined jawline shift beautifully as he mumbles to himself, and his hair is pulled up in a messy bun at the back of his head, rendered close to brown under the moonlight. 

As though Aziraphale’s fifteen-year-old self hasn't been tormented enough by that wild red hair and charming, toothy grin, this seems just the perfect moment to be reminded of how _hot_ his best friend has become as a grown man.

He approaches cautiously, trying not to draw attention to himself. He gets close enough to see that Crowley hasn't been mumbling to himself. He's been talking to the _plants_.

There's something serene on his face as he does so, looking almost childlike even. Aziraphale's heart swells at the sight.

"I was about to ask whether you are in need of company, but you appear to be quite occupied already."

Crowley whips around to face him, a flicker of guilt crossing his features. It fades quickly, giving way to soft laughter. "Of course. Have plenty of good listeners out here."

Aziraphale steps out into the densely packed garden, the only space in the entire flat brimming with life. He doesn't know much about plants, but he can feel how well-loved these ones are. Not a single spot could be found on any of their leaves. There's a smattering of flowers from a few of them as well. He would not have taken Crowley for a gardener, but it makes sense somehow. Crowley has always had careful hands. Rough and callous as he may be on the exterior, in his heart his kind nature will always want something to care for.

Aziraphale moves past him, leaning over the balcony railings and staring into the distant city lights. 

"Why is it that you live alone?"

Crowley comes up beside him, mimicking his pose as he mulls over Aziraphale's question. He shrugs.

"It's not that I haven't tried to connect with anyone. There have been... people. Friends, partners, whatever. But they just came and went. None of them really bothered to stick around."

Aziraphale decides here that _he_ will be that person who sticks around for Crowley. Whatever that might entail.

"It must get awfully lonely here.”

"Not recently," Crowley replies, light and gentle. "Not since you've been around. I mean, not that I'm glad your house burned and all, but I'm glad you're here. I'm also glad we found each other again."

Aziraphale suppresses a shiver that runs down his spine. "I am, too," he admits shyly. "I've long since given up hopes of ever seeing you again, and yet here we are. It's a lot like being fifteen again," he adds with a fond chuckle.

"Is it?"

"I was rather a silly kid, always following you around." Aziraphale feels a blush forming across his cheeks at the memory. "Always hoping you would pay attention to me."

Crowley is silent for a couple of seconds. When Aziraphale turns to face him, he's surprised to find him extremely close.

Crowley looks at him gravely, his head tilted to the side, and Aziraphale can feel his breath against his cheek.

"We aren't kids anymore, Aziraphale."

He sees those lids half-covering amber eyes as Crowley's gaze drops to his mouth.

Aziraphale hardly registers anything else as Crowley's draws nearer, and panic seizes his throat before he manages to take a small step back, hastily looking away and attempting to cool off his overheated cheeks.

"I'm... Indeed, we aren't." His heart is pounding, his mind reeling, both at immeasurable speeds. Did Crowley just make an attempt to kiss him? What on earth for?

Crowley also leans back, clearing his throat awkwardly. "It's, um, getting late. You should probably head to bed now."

Aziraphale doesn't fail to notice the disappointment in his tone. 

He tosses and turns in bed, unable to get any sleep and plagued only with thoughts of Crowley. At this point, he can barely process everything that's happened between them. They have such a complicated history that it’s a near-impossible task to make any sense of it.

He hugs a pillow tightly to himself, trying to sate the aching emptiness in his chest. Since they were kids, Aziraphale has always been content with loving Crowley from a distance, too drunk on the joys of young love to even bother with whether or not it's reciprocated. Crowley has always wanted something to care for, and for some reason Aziraphale has been the person he chose to bestow that upon. 

In contrast, Aziraphale is in love with him. _Still_ in love with him. _More_ in love with him, in fact, than he had been as a thoroughly besotted teenager.

Because now it isn’t just an innocent, childlike admiration that he feels for Crowley. Not the perplexing musings of a young boy still discovering what it is to love. Now his admiration is compounded with _desire_ , rooted into a deep need, latching onto the thick overgrowth of affection he already bears for the man. It isn’t just butterflies in his stomach at the most fleeting brush of hands, nor giddy uncontrollable smiles at every unexpected act of kindness exerted to him. There’s also a gnawing need to touch and be touched, to want and be wanted in return - and all _this_ is accompanied now by the memory of Crowley’s thick voice, telling him how amazing he is at sucking cock.

Vaguely he wonders whether Crowley is still awake. He's beginning to suspect now that Crowley may have troubles with sleeping, and gardening is his way of coping with it. Maybe he can check, try to make him feel better somehow. Maybe it'll make amends with that tense moment that passed between them in the balcony.

With fierce resolution, he gets up and pads across the flat.

The balcony is empty now, silent as the rest of the flat. The walls and floors still feel bare, but there's a lingering presence somehow. He turns the corner over to Crowley's bedroom.

He remembers Crowley telling him that he's welcome to come over at any time, and it's somewhat reminiscent of some of their childhood sleepovers, with Aziraphale nestled close to his side throughout the night. Little conversations about the silliest things used to help Crowley sleep more soundly, and that's something he can offer again now, should he ever need it.

What he fails to remember is that Crowley's bedroom has glass walls. And he only recalls this when he's already two steps past the first glass panel and looking straight at a fully naked Crowley standing by the window, his back turned to Aziraphale.

The first thing Aziraphale notices is the flexing of well-defined back muscles as Crowley shifts his weight on the floor. His body is as ornate as _everything else_ in this god damn flat. His gaze runs over a pair of dimples on his lower back, and he feels something stir low in his groin, followed by a surge of panic that thunders to his ears.

Before he can spiral any further, he catches himself and lets out a terrifically unholy yelp.

Crowley startles at the sound, spinning around to face him fully - and _oh god_. He quickly averts his gaze to a blank wall.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley moves in a whiplike fashion, arm extending outwards to grab a black silk robe and wrap himself in it. 

Aziraphale is trembling while Crowley makes his way over to the bedroom entrance. _Goodness, he didn’t even bother to close the door!_ Crowley clutches the robe by the side of his waist to keep it closed.

"Thought you were already asleep. Is everything alright?" Crowley asks, heavy with concern, likely because Aziraphale is still shaking like a leaf.

"I - I couldn't sleep and I was wondering whether you wanted company. I'm very sorry! I didn't mean to see you like - I just, I'm so sorry!"

Crowley is back to trying to console him. Great. Even though Aziraphale has been the creepy pervert, Crowley’s _still_ the one comforting him.

"No, it's fine. Don't worry about it." He lays a gentle touch over Aziraphale's elbow and it feels like something very close to burning.

His breathing slows down, but only because he finds himself captivated by the soft look in Crowley's eyes.

"I'm relieved you aren't mad at me."

Crowley lets out a quiet laugh. "It's alright. I mean, it's not like you haven't already... you know."

Aziraphale's eyes widen at the implication of their drunken night together. With everything that's happened, he's almost forgotten about it. Crowley runs his hand down to his forearm in a searing path that awakens all his nerve endings. Unable to help himself, his gaze flicks down to the exposed V of Crowley's chest. _Lord help him_ , he already has a favorite part. He licks his lips which have suddenly gone dry.

It’s comfort, he thinks. Crowley has always been his comfort and his home. Warmth blossoms in his chest. He braves through the mounting tension between them to blurt out his next words.

"Actually, I have never seen you without a shirt on before."

Crowley chuckles, low and dark, just a little on the side of enticing. 

"Really?" He quirks up a brow.

Aziraphale nods, looking back up to meet his eyes and finding them suddenly a shade darker.

"It's always been trousers off, I'm afraid."

Crowley takes a step closer, watching him, trying to gauge whether he’ll pull away again. He doesn’t.

The hand on his arm slides over to his back, pushing him ever so slightly closer. Aziraphale imagines that hand traveling further, leaving a wake of imprints all over his skin.

For the second time tonight, Crowley lowers his gaze to his mouth, his smile brimming with affection. "I've also never kissed you before."

This time, Aziraphale stays rooted to his spot, peering up at Crowley through his lashes.

"Is that something that you would like to do, or just, um, a general observation?"

A wicked grin finds its way on Crowley's face. "Definitely not a general observation.”

Before he can think his way out of it, Aziraphale reaches up, palms settling into Crowley's nape, and pulls him down to slot their lips together.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist adding the Pretty Woman reference ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This okay, angel?” He whispers the question, breath warm and moist against his mouth. When he nods in response, Crowley smiles again (that dastardly, devilish smile because he can’t help himself). “Good.”
> 
> (The evening progresses.)

_Earlier that day, when Crowley suggested they go see a film together, it was easy enough to agree. They had watched many films on the telly - from documentaries about outer space to low-budget thrillers set in gothic mansions. But he had no idea how different it would be in the darkened halls of an actual cinema, seated mere inches away from the older teen and more feeling his presence than seeing it. All of it was so much more intense._

_And it didn't help that they had chosen to watch, of all things, a romcom._

_It was all good fun for the first hour, sure. The film itself wasn't half-bad, and the cast seemed to know what they were doing. Aziraphale had been fully engrossed in the film and indulging in the tub of buttery popcorn wedged between his and Crowley's elbows. Crowley had his head leaned all the way back, his fingers lightly tapping a rhythm into his lap every time a catchy song played from the film._

_The leading man, a ruggedly handsome boy with a kind heart, stumbled (quite literally) into the scene. His arms flailed and he caught himself on the curtain sheet, gasping. The girl witnessed all this and gave a short, almost fond laugh._

_Beside him, he heard Crowley chuckle._

_And then, something new was happening. The entire cinema fell silent, the lines suddenly spoken by the actors in hushed tones. And the leads were left alone in the scene, seated on the floor of a beige living room, gazing into each other's eyes._

_Heat pooled in Aziraphale's stomach. He didn't think he'd ever seen so much tension in one film. They were leaning in, and subconsciously he held his breath._

_The first touch of their lips on the wide screen was a magical moment, lips molding into the other, pulling back with a wet sound which echoed through the room. Their foreheads pressed, breathing heavily, and then they dove back in, exchanging kisses with greater ferocity._

_He could feel himself flaming up. Grateful for the concealment the dimmed lights could provide, he chanced a look over at his friend._

_Crowley had his eyes glued to the screen, a small smile on his face. His features were illuminated only from one side, where his chiseled nose could draw the faint beam of light blending into the dipping space below his cheekbone, spreading out over a pair of thin lips - slightly protruded with interest._

_This was the first time Aziraphale had wanted to kiss him._

_And it was a grand realisation, all things considered. He'd admired Crowley for years, his heart having learned all the beats and rhythms it could possibly make from a vast array of comforting touches, reassuring words, red hair rustling in the wind, and a handsome toothy grin._

_But he had never considered the thought of_ _kissing_ _him before today._

_Crowley reached into the tub between them and brought a handful of popcorn pieces to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, leaving a glimmering stain of butter on his lips. He licked it off and followed it up by sucking on three fingers for good measure._

_It may have taken Aziraphale a full half a minute to register that the sounds of raspy breathing were coming from the film. Who even knew what it was about at this point._

_To now think of how it would be to kiss Crowley was sweet, unimaginable torture. He wondered whether he'd be shy, or if he would confidently lead Aziraphale into it. If he could run his hands in Crowley's hair while Crowley held his face. He touched his own flushed cheek, imagining that it was his friend's hand instead. What was going on? He'd never felt such longing, such frustration at wanting something he knew he could not have. Loving Crowley had always been easy - as natural as falling into bed after a long day and breathing the fresh air off the meadows of Tadfield. It was light and happy and warm - never this overheated, uncontrollably clawing thing that caused his chest to constrict so hard he had to remind himself to breathe again._

_It was painful. And so very lonely._

_His hand moved absently into the popcorn, only to encounter Crowley's hand already in it. He jerked, retracting his arm and squishing himself into the farthest edge of his seat. Crowley turned to look at him, alarmed._

_"Angel, you alright?"_

_No, he wanted to say. This was very far from being alright._

_"I..."_ _Please kiss me. Will you do it if I ask nicely?_ _"I just think--"_

_Crowley only kept giving him that soft look, that small smile that was meant to be comforting but also hinted at a bit of concern. "I've been hogging all the popcorn, sorry about that. This was meant to be for you."_

_Aziraphale shook his head. "No, I don't mind. Please excuse me."_

_He stood up, leaving a confused Crowley in his wake. The film continued to roll, its sounds fading away the closer Aziraphale got to the exit. He made a straight dash toward the restroom and spent the next twenty minutes trying to still his racing heart._

_Don’t get any bright ideas. He’s just being nice, he will never want to kiss you_ _, he thought to himself, and he felt his heart break as he did so._ _Just love him, be content with loving him. Loving him is its own reward._

_This was the beginning of a mantra he would repeat to himself several times over the rest of the year._

_\---_

Crowley decides rather quickly that kissing Aziraphale is utterly exquisite. His lips are soft, and intoxicatingly sweet (so much so that he knows he’ll keep craving more). Not to mention the delicious gasps he elicits from the other when he pulls him even closer, flushed against his chest. The older man swears the rest of the room fuzzes into static until all he feels is the gentle pressure of a mouth he’s been daydreaming about for weeks now.

He easily melts into the warmth of the angel’s hands on his nape, fingers gently caressing his skin, before they slide up to grip onto his hair and—

Aziraphale pulls away in an instant, his cheeks a deep shade of red. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, seemingly shocked by his own bravado. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“No,” Crowley interrupts, his voice low and rumbling like a growl. Desire rises up from the pit of his stomach and he makes no attempt to hide it. Especially now that he knows Aziraphale reciprocates, at least in some way. “Do that again.”

Aziraphale’s breath hitches, fingers still tangled in his hair. With a meek nod, he leans in close. So close that he can almost taste the pearl pink of his mouth. But he halts when they’re just a millimeter or so away. 

“Are you sure?” he whispers. His voice is small, betraying his nerves. "This feels too good to be true." 

A deep fondness is roused in him. It reminds him of all those years ago, back when they were still young and innocent. How the other always let him take the lead. Perhaps that’s what he needs him to do right now, too. “God... _yes_ ,” Crowley rasps, before dropping another sweet kiss to his lips. 

They decide not to rush— taking their time in getting accustomed to the taste of each other’s mouths, their tongues pressing smoothly in a wet slide. He feels the younger man slide his hands down to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing over the stubbly skin. Soon enough, their lips move in such a perfect rhythm it's like they’ve been doing this for years. It takes his breath away, how the angel can kiss him with such an unmistakable _hunger_ , but still keep it so soft. So gentle. 

Crowley holds onto Aziraphale's wrists. A tether against the tide of overwhelming feelings cascading between them. _(“We’re not kids anymore,” he told him earlier. But he’d be a fool not to recognize how their history plays into all this.)_

When they break away again, they’re both panting— faces hot and lips swollen. The blond looks up at him in wonder. "Hello," Aziraphale says, beaming brightly. 

He grins toothily, letting go to hold onto the other’s waist instead. "Hey," he responds, before placing more kisses to his forehead, down to the tip of his nose, and the fluttering pulse of his neck. Nipping gently at his collarbone to leave light, barely-there marks.

Aziraphale squirms under his grasp, slowly tracing his hands down, then up and under his satin robe. His palms glide over his shoulder before digging his blunt nails against his back. An absentminded action that causes the fabric to slip off his body and fall to the floor. 

“What a tease,” Crowley laughs against his skin, his own fingers toying with the buttons of the other’s shirt. 

He huffs softly at the accusation. “I didn’t do that on purpose.” 

“Wouldn’t have minded either way, angel,” he grunts, straightening back up to get a better look of the other's face. His tone is playful, but there’s a seriousness to it that makes the other blush. Crowley savours in the sight of him like this: achingly beautiful, even in this dimmed, moonlit room. A picture of pure seduction.

_Fucking Christ._

He surges forward, backing Aziraphale up against the wall and pinning him in place. The angel inhales sharply, eyes wide and anxious. But the anxiety is there for only a second, washed away as soon as Crowley bites softly on his bottom lip, fingers brushing over the waistband of his pyjama pants. He can feel Aziraphale shudder at the contact. 

“This okay, angel?” He whispers the question, breath warm and moist against his mouth. When he nods in response, Crowley smiles again (that dastardly, devilish smile because he can’t help himself). “Good.”

He wastes no time in undressing the angel. First his shirt, one button at a time. Peeling the fabric off his body with ease. Aziraphale swallows thickly when Crowley sinks down to his knees next, his hands still at work; pulling his trousers off and tossing them to the side. 

“Crowley,” he nearly begs, leaning back and steadying himself against the wall. His cock visibly hard and glistening with precum. “What are you doing—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he placates, a hand sliding up one of Aziraphale’s legs before guiding it up to hook over his shoulder. With a mischievous glance, Crowley brings a hand up to slowly stroke the length of his cock— all while mouthing along the supple skin of his inner thigh “Oh, sweetheart. Fuck, I can eat you out just like this. D’you like that?”

Aziraphale shivers, hips stuttering in delicious ecstasy. "I won't deny you anything, Crowley. I - I need you." 

They look at each other for a brief moment, the room suddenly hot and stuffy. The warmth of their bodies mingling together as they press closer, and closer.

"I'll make you see stars, angel. I promise." 

He starts off by biting and sucking on the soft swell of his arse. Teasing him enough to drive the angel mad, to make him _crave_ for him. He knows about the joys of delayed gratification very well. Soon enough, Crowley’s tongue brushes languidly against his rim, and Aziraphale yelps at the contact. 

“Relax, angel. Feels good, yeah?”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer immediately, but he feels his fingers thread encouragingly through his hair. “Yes - oh, Good Lord. _More, please_.”

Crowley laps at the sensitive skin, burying his face between his buttocks and diving right into it. He eats the angel out eagerly like he was made for this. Like a parched man stranded in the desert for forty days who has found his oasis. Like this is the Garden of Eden and he can finally indulge in the forbidden fruit. Sweet and irresistible. 

“I can’t really believe it,” Aziraphale sighs blissfully, the heel of his foot digging lightly against the other’s shoulder blade. 

Crowley hums, pulling away for a moment to look up at him. “Me neither. I’ve been wanting you for weeks now. Felt like I was going to lose my goddamn mind.” 

He receives a breathy laugh in reply. “I may have been wanting you a bit longer, my dear.” 

"What?"

Before he can ask what he meant by that, Aziraphale decides he’s had enough conversation and tugs desperately on his hair. A silent plea to continue. And he heartily concedes.

Crowley is very much aware of how readily the angel would fall to submission before him, with the way he is drawn to his every touch. A quiet indication that he’s willing to be at his beck and call. And he revels in the bolt of power that rolls down his spine because of it. _(Not now, he reminds himself. Tonight is about pleasing Aziraphale, and he doesn’t want to risk making the angel uncomfortable.)_

“Crowley…” he purrs, gazing at him through his lashes. His eyes darken, pupils blown out and dilated. It makes him shiver in arousal.

“Yes, angel?” he drawls, chest heaving. "Tell me what you want me to do."

“Anything you like, _please_.”

Crowley doesn't need to be told twice. Over a rush of adrenaline, he stands back up and collides their lips for another open-mouthed kiss. Their lips slot against each other messily, more passionately, as he leads Aziraphale to lie down on the bed. Locking him in place as one hand plants firmly on one side of his head, the other moving down to thumb over his waist. 

“Have I told you how stunning you are?” he asks breathlessly.

Aziraphale shakes his head, flushed pink. “You haven’t, my dear. You don’t have to say that, though.” 

“M’not… just saying it.”

“Crowley,” he replies, sounding both flustered and exasperated. “I’m well aware that I’m… I’m soft.” 

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” he retorts, gazing at him in adoration. “You're perfect.”

Crowley makes sure to kiss every speck of skin on the angel’s body. An act of reassurance. Of veneration. Aziraphale slowly unravels, in soft whimpers and hushed breaths. Sprawled out on the bed with his legs spread apart, waiting pliantly. 

Crowley reaches over to open his bedside drawer— fishing out a condom and a bottle of lube and tossing them on the mattress.

"Did - did you have those ready?" Aziraphale asks quietly.

"I just have them," he says hastily, while trying to gauge the other's reaction. "But, I wasn't planning on seducing you, if that's what you're wondering. Well, only if you wanted me too."

Aziraphale answers by bringing a hand over, dragging his fingers down Crowley's bare chest. "I do want you."

He knows those words will stay etched in his mind for the next few days and weeks, along with the thrill that comes with them. After dropping back down for a bruising kiss, he takes hold of the bottle and pops the cap open.

Crowley can feel him tremble from the touch of cold liquid against his rim. “Relax, angel. I just need to prepare you.” he mumbles into his ear, the pad of his finger circling once before slipping in the first knuckle, then the second. Opening him up with his fingers as heat coils tight in his groin. 

He continues coaxing him throughout, with soothing words and light kisses. With his other hand wrapped around the angel's cock, pumping it in increasingly quick strokes. 

“For heaven’s sake, Crowley,” Aziraphale whines, writhing in place and looking at him with wide, pleading eyes.

“Quite needy, aren’t you?” he teases, raising a brow. But he gives in, slipping his fingers out and tearing open the condom so he can slide the slick latex down his shaft. He grabs the bottle of lube after— making sure to put a generous amount of it on his length. 

“I can’t help it,” Aziraphale says in a ragged breath, eyes downcast now. “I want… I want to feel you inside of me.”

That about does it. Crowley tugs him closer by the hips, and Aziraphale's body drags roughly against the messy sheets because of it. An action that makes the latter gasp, but he doesn’t look afraid. No, he’s thoroughly aroused. _Fuck._

Taking a deep breath, he aligns the head of his cock to the angel’s rim. His eyes catch Aziraphale licking his lips in anticipation, a hand reaching up to press against his torso. Fingers grazing his skin lightly.

“Sweetheart, the things you do to me,” Crowley rasps, before sliding into him halfway. Aziraphale lets out a ragged breath. Crowley gives him a brief moment to adjust to his size before slamming in all the way. 

A wordless noise of pleasure bubbles up Crowley's throat as he feels his length get enveloped by the tightness of Aziraphale’s walls. He can hear the angel cry out as well, begging him to keep going as he starts off with a tentative roll of his hips.

“I got you,” Crowley drawls against his mouth, swallowing the whine he receives in response. He still holds him as gentle as he can. Aziraphale flings his arms over his shoulders to keep him close, clinging onto him as their bodies rock against each other. Slowly at first, but then he picks up speed— entirely unrelenting and urgent that the other is reduced to a keening mess.

Watching Aziraphale fall apart beneath him renders Crowley breathless, prompting him to quicken the pace, each thrust causing a string of incoherent moans to slip out of the younger man's lips. Here they are, hips slotted against each other perfectly. The angel’s hands grasping at his back, at his hair, as he takes in every inch of his cock. 

_“Fuck. He truly is an angel,”_ Crowley thinks as his eyes rake over his light cloud-fluff hair, flushed cheeks and plump lips, down to every beautiful curve and crevice of his body. 

Who is he not to worship every part of him?

Crowley takes everything Aziraphale allows of him, and gives everything in equal measure. Maybe even more. 

(Who is he not to _indulge_?)

Aziraphale comes hard with a loud moan of his name, and he follows soon after. They ride their orgasms into filthy oblivion, shaking from the aftershocks that snake through them like lightning until all they can feel is a soft, static-like buzz pulsing through their veins. 

And they let the tingling sensations subside as they settle back into bed thereafter. Still messy and sticky from sex but they'll deal with all that in the morning. 

Unsurprisingly, Aziraphale falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. Exhaustion catches up on him as soon as he's tucked comfortably under the blanket. Crowley lies down on his side, facing the angel as he contemplates everything that has transpired this evening. 

He tells himself that he shouldn't read into things. They are friends, he knows that much. It's just a small shift in their dynamic— one that isn't unwelcomed at all. For now, all he knows for sure is their shared attraction. Perhaps the younger man propositioned him because he's grateful, prompted by all the help he's offered him. And it's something he needs to accept. It's something that, he concludes, is enough.

(Much more than what he thinks he deserves.) 

Crowley closes his eyes after a while and, despite the many questions that have made their way into his head, proceeds to have the best sleep he's had in months.

* * *

Sunlight streams down on Aziraphale's face the next morning, barraging into his vision. It's far too bright, and in his half-asleep haziness he slaps a hand over his eyes in a meagre attempt to recreate the night. What he finds instead is that the silk sheets slide down easily over his lifted bare arm.

His eyes shoot open at once.

A quick look around confirms that he is, in fact, inside Crowley's bedroom, pressed carefully into the exquisite linens of Crowley's bed. He bites his lip and takes a quick look under the blanket covering him, past his chest and down to the swelling point of his stomach...

Yup, bare as a newborn. He's flaming up before he knows it, and his pulse races into his ears. The bed is extremely soft and the sheets are cool all over his skin. His stomach and backside are sticky with dried come (some his and and some Crowley’s - the thought sends a shiver down his back), and he's sunk into a heap on the mattress as though he's been sleeping there every night for years.

He springs up and off the bed, pads across the floor in search of his clothing, and finds it strewn about _everywhere_ like a goddamn tornado swept through the room while he slept. Once dressed, he tiptoes carefully to the glass doors, sliding them open.

 _"That you, angel?"_

Crowley's voice rings out from the direction of the kitchen. Wincing, Aziraphale scampers off in the opposite direction and into the bathroom, clicking the lock shut behind him while he breathes heavily with his back against the door.

With forced calm, he heads over to the sink and looks at himself in the mirror.

 _Good lord._ Just as he feared - he looks horrifying. The early morning panic shot his blood pressure right up and his face is blotchy red, his eyes still wrinkled from sleep, and his hair (currently glowing the exact same faint gold of Crowley's bathroom lights) sticks out everywhere, exploring otherworldly dimensions. The horrid taste of stale morning breath is heavy on his tongue.

He groans and grabs for his toothbrush. Splashes his face with cold water. Wipes drool off his face with clean soap, and even cleans the come off his body. 

Another slow, assessing look into the mirror has him grumbling, running his hands under the faucet. He sticks his wet, ice-cold fingers into his hair and tries to set stylish curls over his forehead. He overdoes it, though, and he ruins them to start all over again, trying to make them look more like casual waves. Something less _'I’ve descended from the Sistine Chapel's ceiling'_ and more _'Meh, I just woke up like this'._

When at last he's settled into a style that isn't too atrocious, he stares wide-eyed at himself, at the expanse of creamy white skin around his neck, fading into his shirt. The clothes do nothing. He can still feel the caresses and phantom touches all over his body, the imprints of Crowley's fingers where he'd placed them the previous night, and all at once he's blushing again. God, how is he supposed to act when he sees him? What will Crowley want him to do? What is he _allowed_ to do, after that uncharacteristic display of boldness he had last night? 

_I've rather made a mess of things, haven’t I?_

He halts that train of thought. Where has worrying ever gotten him? Nowhere, that's for sure. He's spent most of his life on the safer side of things, fretting and fussing, trying to keep things familiar and under control, and now his bookshop is in a state of disrepair. And last night, after yearning to kiss Crowley for so long he finally took the courageous step for once and went for it - and _fucking stars_ did it pay off. A part of him thinks that maybe, just maybe, that's what he should've done all along.

He stares into his own eyes in the mirror. _I’ll just go up to him and kiss him._ Let Crowley decide what happens next. 

Finally, he exits the bathroom, trudging carefully out into the kitchen. Crowley has his back turned to him by the counter, hands on his waist, and he's about to head over when he realises that he isn't alone.

"Good morning, Mr. Fell!" Eric's youthful, brightly smiling face comes into view as he stands proudly over the countertop, across Crowley, hands behind his back.

Crowley twists around to face him then. "Angel."

But Aziraphale isn't even looking at either of them. Instead, he has his perplexed gaze on the mountains of bread currently loaded on the marble counters.

"What... is all this?"

He can't even form an inventory of the items. There are some croissants, a few bagels, danishes, muffins, and the like - leaving not a single empty space on the surface. He looks about the room and discovers a few that have spilled over on the dining table as well. It smells heavenly, and his stomach grumbles at the sight, but mostly he's just confused. He looks to Crowley for an explanation.

The corner of his mouth tugs up into an endearing grin, almost shy. Dressed in a sleepshirt and loose pyjama bottoms, Aziraphale thinks he looks almost like his teenage self again.

It's Eric who speaks up instead. "Mr. Crowley called up early today and told me to drop by the bakery downstairs and get every item on offer."

He lands an accusatory glare over at the redhead. "You _what?"_

"I wasn't sure which one you'd like!"

Aziraphale can only imagine how many rounds it took for the young assistant to get all this up in the flat. Sometimes he thinks Crowley's being too hard on the kid, but the latter seems to take it all in stride. And he has to admit that the selection of pastries looks utterly delectable.

Crowley clears his throat, twice. Aziraphale turns back to look at him, only he's shooting a pointed look at Eric instead.

Eric takes a few seconds to squint his eyes, making out Crowley's signal before his jaw hangs open, and he's edging his way towards the front door. "Ah, yes, of course! I will. I'll be going now! I have, er, a _thing._ To get to. See ya, boss. Bye, Mr. Fell!"

Aziraphale is still a tiny bit stunned, but he manages to smile and wave at Eric. "It was good to see you, dear boy. Thank you very much."

With a final salute, Eric disappears through the front doors. The automatic lock clicks shut, and the flat is blanketed in silence.

"So." Crowley says, a bit cautious. "Don't _I_ get a thank you?"

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, walks over and grabs onto his shirt, planting a kiss firmly on his mouth.

Crowley inhales sharply, taken aback, before his arms circle around his shoulders, pressing him close to his front. The kiss becomes more heated than Aziraphale anticipated, and their teeth clack when he tilts his head to deepen it. Neither of them seems to mind, though. They move in sync, one kiss after another, chasing each other's mouths over and over again like they can't get enough. Aziraphale coyly glides his palm flat over Crowley's chest, swiping his pointer over a hardened nipple. Crowley jerks into him and kisses him harder. He does it again, this time following it up with a light pinch, and the taller man huffs into the kiss and lands a playful slap over his bum. He lets out a delighted squeal.

His giggles break off the kiss, his eyes squinting in glee over a warmth that's quickly filling up his chest. When he opens them again, he finds Crowley openly staring at him.

His laughter dies down as he becomes more self-conscious. "What?" 

"You are really, really gorgeous," he replies, almost in awe.

Aziraphale flusters up. That's something you don't hear every day from a best friend. He plays it cool, biting his lip and replying smoothly with: "You certainly know your flattery."

Inside, though, he's panicking, wondering why Crowley would say something like that all of a sudden. He shrugs it off quickly, reminds himself not to get carried away in the fantasy. Just because Crowley is amenable to participating in carnal pleasures with him doesn't mean he feels anything more, or is even remotely close to reciprocating Aziraphale’s feelings (which, to be frank, would be difficult to match. He’s had over two decades of buildup after all). _Best not to read into things._ It won't do any good to set himself up for disappointment a second time.

He pulls away from Crowley's hold and makes his way over to the table for breakfast.

He ends up settling on a blueberry cheese danish first. And he eagerly digs into it with happy moans as it melts into his mouth. Crowley is seated across the table, studying him with a white-knuckled grip around his fork.

"Are you all right?" Crowley asks when Aziraphale's halfway through his sixth pastry. "You aren't aching anywhere, are you?"

Aziraphale's mouth is stuffed with bread so he shakes his head silently. He isn't the least bit sore. But the redhead doesn't look convinced, so he speaks once he's swallowed. "You were exceptionally gentle last night."

Crowley releases a breath of relief.

"Rather _too_ gentle, if you ask me," he adds quietly.

"What was that?"

Aziraphale shoots him a wary look, trying to gauge whether it's safe for him to be frank at the moment - but who is he kidding, this is _Crowley._ It's always safe to talk to him about anything. Why should this be any different?

"Not that I didn't enjoy it, because I did. Um. _Immensely_." He trails off, blushing. A small smile flits over Crowley's features. "I just couldn't help noticing that you seemed to be holding back. Quite a lot, actually."

"That's ridiculous."

He shoots him a pointed look. "Crowley, I've known you since I was eight years old. I can tell what your _peak enthusiasm_ ought to be like. That includes during intercourse."

Crowley takes on a resigned look. "I just don't want to hurt you."

"And I know you won't," he replies firmly. "But it is all right to roughen me up a little. I won't break."

It was a small attempt to turn the conversation back to light banter, but Crowley doesn't bite. He looks pensive, breathing deeply before making his reply.

"Aziraphale, I'm not kidding. I still haven't stopped thinking about what I did to you the first time."

He fails to suppress a shiver, again, at the recollection of that night at his bookshop. He ducks his chin, looking at Crowley through his lashes. "Neither have I. Though, I suspect, for entirely different reasons."

He hears Crowley's breathing hitch, and his brown eyes widen by a fraction. " _Ngk._ Angel, what you saw that night wasn't... I shouldn't have done it. And if I weren't piss drunk I wouldn't have at all."

"What I saw that night, dear, was a new side of you. One that I am, um, quite eager to be acquainted with."

"You can't be serious."

Aziraphale takes a long sip of his tea, never dropping his gaze from Crowley - just to show how very _serious_ he is.

Crowley rubs his palm over his face. "Fuck. Angel, you can't. You don't know what you're getting into."

"Well, if that first night was any indication..."

"Jesus Christ, you actually _liked_ that?" It's Crowley who's flustering uncontrollably now, and he feels a spark of triumph in his veins.

Just a little more nudging. Crowley always indulges him _eventually._

But Crowley still looks stern. "Are you sure? In the past I've been asked to tone it down. It tends to get unpleasant. What do you even get out of it?"

Aziraphale plops his cup on the table, fidgeting with the porcelain handle.

"Your intensity," he admits, studying his response very carefully. "When you tell me what to do, it means your focus is on _me._ And I like that."

"But I'm always focused on you. It doesn't have to be all rough like that first time. I want to make it good for you."

Aziraphale feels a flurry of butterflies in his gut. That was unexpectedly _sweet_. He gives Crowley a comforting smile.

"I like it when you pleasure me. When you take care of me, but..."

"But what, angel? Tell me what exactly it is you want."

He releases a gust of breath. "I want you to _desire_ me as well." He runs a finger over the rim of his cup in an effort to soothe his nerves and distract himself from the heaviness of Crowley's gaze. "To _want_ me. And be so lost in it that you just... well, get _lost._ "

"Oh."

Aziraphale laughs nervously. "I mean, it is more of a situational suggestion. I know, realistically, you don't actually _want_ me want me, though in context of this activity - "

"What do you mean by that?"

Aziraphale shakes his head. "It's nothing, dear. I know I'm not that much to look at, but it does help."

"Woah there. What made you think of that shit?" Crowley's mouth quivers a little, and his eyes look almost sad. "Everything I told you last night was true. Still is. I've been wanting to fuck you since you handed me that ice pack for my knee, didn’t you know that?"

"I didn't." Aziraphale replies, stunned. "Really?"

Crowley nods frantically. "Yeah. I mean, of course, there was the surprise of seeing you again after all these years but also, I couldn't believe how beautiful you've become."

A thrill shoots right through his spine. Just the idea that Crowley has desired him - thought about ravishing him, even, already makes his head dizzy.

"It never occurred to me that you could want me in that way," he confesses, and a grateful smile forms on his face. "Thank you for telling me that."

Crowley blinks a few times, taking this all in. "Aziraphale, how could you not know? How could you not _tell?_ I don't even think I was being subtle."

Aziraphale doesn't know how to respond, so he finishes his pastry instead.

"If it gets too much, tell me immediately and we'll stop."

Aziraphale whips up his gaze. "What?"

Crowley fixes him with an intense gaze and it pools up all the heat in his stomach, flaring up his arousal. Lord help him, he _adores_ that look.

"If I ever become too much, go just the slightest bit over what you're comfortable with doing, tell me _immediately._ Shake your head. Push me away. Swear it, Aziraphale."

All the tension is released in his chest. He nods eagerly. "I promise."

"Good." Crowley leans back in his seat. "Now finish your breakfast."

He considers picking up another piece from the pile of bread by his elbow, but then an idea occurs to him. He gives Crowley a cheeky look and pushes back on his chair.

"Going somewhere?" Crowley asks.

"You can say that." 

Aziraphale edges himself off the seat, slinking down to drop on all fours under the table.

"Angel?"

He crawls the short distance forward, settling his large palms over Crowley's thighs, wedging them apart.

"I'm here."

He slides his palms up, feeling sinewy muscle twitch under thin cotton. Crowley is tense, but he makes no move to stop him. Satisfied, he trails further up to grab at his waistband, exposing his half-hard shaft in one forceful tug.

Aziraphale licks his lips.

"Angel?" Crowley asks, voice throaty and a little distant. "W-what are you doing?"

"Finishing breakfast, dear." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way that I (Courtney) wrote part of the smut at 3am oh god. Hope you like the chapter! <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley make new routines and test the boundaries of their unspoken arrangement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It's been a short while since an update but we hope this is worth the wait. A little bit of everything for this chapter (good doses of fluff, smut, and angst). As always, thank you Stef for being the best beta. 💕

_Today it was clear skies for the idyllic town of Tadfield. The soft bustle of people inside Tyler's Diner could barely be heard above the jukebox tunes. The smell of fried eggs lingered in the air over clinking utensils and hushed, friendly conversations._

_Today, Crowley was seated across the table, in the middle of jokingly complaining about the soreness in his muscles from a whole day of hauling luggage around - but he'd brought it on himself, after all. He always left things to be done until the very last minute, and suffered the consequences of it each time._

_Today, Crowley had bidden farewells to the friends from his year. They had thrown a small gathering and given him little gifts. Then, he had invited Aziraphale out to eat dinner, cheerful and excited for what was to come._

_Tomorrow, he would be on a plane ready to whisk him away, to drop him off into the mystifying wonders of university, where he would discover the better pleasures the world had to offer. Life beyond Tadfield. Life without Aziraphale._

_Aziraphale took up the menu in a white-knuckled grip, reading the words without comprehending them. He had his usual favourites, of course. They'd been coming to this same place for years. There should've been no sense of anxiety or trepidation. It was just a normal dinner with Crowley, like the many ones they’ve had before._

_He tried not to think that this was likely to be their last dinner ever._

_"I'll write to you first thing when I get there," Crowley said smoothly after he'd gone on about the little details of his future campus. Sensing Aziraphale's silence, he continued. "I'll try to call when I can."_

_"Don't be silly. You'll rack up quite the phone bill from overseas." Aziraphale smiled tightly. "Just, I don't know, send postcards or something."_

_"Postcards?" Crowley laughed. "I'll send you all the postcards then."_

_But this did little to console him. In truth, he was terrified. Crowley was his best friend, his constant companion since childhood. He was almost another limb - part and parcel of Aziraphale himself. Growing up, he'd thought he had the world, but he realised now that Tadfield was little more than a sandbox: easy to explore and easier to step out of. Easy to leave behind._

_Maybe there was still something he could do. He'd made some solid resolutions about his feelings for Crowley, but if he could just be brave for once - if he could set all that aside and tell him the truth, maybe it would be enough. Enough to get him to stay._

_Slowly, he lowered the menu from his face to gaze at his friend, who looked back at him with a kind and open grin. Many times over the course of his life did he look on that welcoming smile and found all the comfort he could gather. All the strength he had. And that made it easier for him to finally say it._

_"Crowley.” He uttered the familiar name, successfully grabbing the attention of his friend. A nervous shift present in his tone. “I love you."_

_It was dead silent for a moment, during which his heart made a full route to the pit of his stomach and back. Crowley stared, his mouth falling open, looking ever so slightly puzzled._

_And then, he laughed._

_"You're sweet. I've never been much for soppy words, m'fraid, but you know I love you too, Aziraphale." He picked up his own menu, looking over the list like the ravenous teenage boy that he was. "Now, what do you wanna eat? Order anything you want, it's on me."_

_____

He plunges Crowley's cock into his mouth, moving down to the base as Crowley lets out a deep groan. It's amazing to feel him hardening inside his mouth, stretching him open. He moans approvingly.

When Crowley is fully hard, he bobs his head. This doesn't have to be drawn out, just a quick thanks for being such a dear, and they aren't in any hurry. He moves his mouth up, but his chapped lips catch a little on Crowley's shaft, so he moves down to the base again, until the tip is lodged in his throat. He wriggles his head, wanting to choke on it.

"Fucking hell, angel!" Crowley whines helplessly. "You're killing me. This has to be murder..." His hand winds into the back of Aziraphale's head, pushing him further down to trigger his gag reflex. Sparks of arousal shoot up his spine as he gags on Crowley's cock, his mouth hanging slightly open, drool slipping out past his lips and trailing down his chin. Crowley grabs his hair, pulls him up and slams him back down over his shaft, and it happens all over again. 

"Unbelievable," Crowley gasps, his legs shuddering around him. "The mouth on you, angel. Keep doing that. You're so good at sucking my cock."

Aziraphale mewls at the praise.

"You're so good, on your knees like this. Should just shove my prick in you, take you by surprise, make you gag on it. That's what you want, right? Bet you can get me off without even using your hands."

 _Yes._ He shivers and moans. That's exactly what he wants.

His eyes drift shut in pleasure. The heat of it all is delightful, and he's also achingly hard but he doesn't even feel it. All he can focus on is Crowley's prick, shoved as deep as it could go into his throat. There's so much drool over his mouth, wetting his nose and sliding down his chin that it's easier now to move his head up and down Crowley's member. He increases his pace, Crowley's hand still gripping his hair. But Crowley is so lost in his own pleasure that he's helpless to do anything but grab onto it as Aziraphale moves eagerly to get him off with his mouth _alone._ He can tell that Crowley is close, but his lips are starting to ache. He can't stop now though. He keeps the pace, fully determined to succeed in his goal. Crowley tugs on his hair and he _whines_ desperately.

"I know, angel." Crowley shushes him, patting his head. "I know what you want, and I'll give it to you. You don't have to tell me anything. Better to use your mouth on this instead. Just… little more, dove."

Aziraphale is so close to bursting. Finally, _finally_ he's seeing Crowley unleashed. And he absolutely _loves_ it. He's spurred on even more as he works on Crowley's prick, keeping his hands firmly clasped over his calves.

"I'm c-close." Crowley's panting now, barely able to speak. "Fuck! You'll take it. Swallow my come. Take it like the pretty little cockslut you are."

Aziraphale moans at his words, and the vibrations move straight through Crowley, bringing him all the way to his release. He finishes, lodged deep in Aziraphale's throat. 

He greedily swallows it all down, taking care not to let any of it spill out. He's already getting used to the taste of Crowley's come, and it doesn't bother him anymore. He hollows his cheeks, dutifully wringing him of every single drop.

He stays very still, basking in the feel of Crowley on his tongue until the hand on his head pulls him off.

Crowley sags into a boneless heap on his chair.

"Come here. Want to see you.”

Slowly, Aziraphale climbs up over his thighs to come face to face with Crowley, kneeling in between his languidly spread legs.

Crowley hauls him up by the arms and plops him down to sit on his lap. Aziraphale is a little concerned that he may be too heavy, but before he could voice it out, Crowley grabs his chin forward and kisses him forcefully.

"That was." Crowley mumbles into his mouth, his voice much lower than usual. "You're perfect." He kisses him again.

Aziraphale smiles into his mouth, returning the kiss with equal enthusiasm. "Now aren't you glad we've had that conversation?"

Crowley grumbles but doesn't retort. "Shut up."

They remain on that seat for a half-hour longer.

* * *

The first time Crowley woke up to Aziraphale in his bed, it’s to a fluff of blond curls tickling his chin. He peeked an eye open, squinting slightly as he adjusted to the light. The angel was still fast asleep, quietly snoring against his neck with an arm draped over his bare torso. It took him a moment to take everything in: the warmth of their naked bodies pressed against each other and the distinct scent of sweat and sex clinging to the room. Something that felt almost as intimate as everything that transpired the night before.

Oh.

The night before. 

Crowley swallowed thickly as flashes of that evening returned to him in a rush, his mind beginning to replay everything in great detail. Glimpses of the angel unraveling before him now thoroughly etched in his mind. The eager touches and frantic kisses, and everything in between. He made sure to commit it all to memory, to look back at even after Aziraphale leaves this temporary arrangement they’ve made. 

_(How long can I have you like this?)_

With a gentle kiss to his hair, Crowley extricated himself from the angel’s hold and got to his feet. “I’ll get us a proper breakfast, hm?” he leaned down to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear, and chuckled softly when the latter reached over for him, even in his sleep. Probably a reflex reaction. Not something to read into.

Even so, he didn’t stop thinking about it even as he padded over to the bathroom to clean up. 

The second time Crowley woke up to Aziraphale in his bed, their bodies were tangled together. Curled up around each other in the midst of rumpled sheets. He let himself linger that time, to admire the angel: his face tucked against the opposite pillow, soft bare shoulder peeking from under their shared blanket, and his fingers sleepily curled around Crowley’s bare hip. He could see a scattering of lovebites blooming on the angel’s neck, telltale marks of how much he wanted to stake his claim on him. Gratefully, it was a shared enthusiasm. 

_(“You’re mine,” Crowley let slip while he rocked his hips forward, mouthing along the angel’s kiss-bitten skin. Aziraphale nodded, crying out as he got lost in the pleasure. He wasn’t even sure if he heard it at all. You’re mine. Mine, at least for the night.)_

Waking up from his slumber, Aziraphale reached for him again. This time, he gravitated toward the touch. Offer and acceptance. Crowley took his hand into his, bringing it to his lips to press featherlike kisses on his knuckles.

“G’morning, angel.”

“Mm. Good morning, my dear,” he mumbled just as he opened his eyes, thumb stroking the other’s fingers absentmindedly. “What time is it?”

Crowley yawned, shifting a bit to lie down on his back with his arms stretched out comfortably. “Too early, honestly. You can sleep in a bit more.”

“That won’t be necessary. I should probably get up and shower,” he replied, but then he lit up at an idea. A coy smile formed on the Aziraphale’s lips as he slid a palm up Crowley’s chest. “You can join me, if you like.”

With the angel looking at him like that, all pretty and flushed pink as he made such a proposition, how could he say no? 

They made their way to the bathroom in an instant, and only went so far as undressing and turning the water on before Crowley pinned him to one corner. The angel sighed as he leaned against the tiled walls of the shower, gripping on Crowley’s damp red hair as the latter got on his knees. Aziraphale’s cock was heavy on his tongue as he hollowed his cheeks and sucked him off like he was made for this. 

How many times did they do this already? In the span of a few days, they had already christened numerous surfaces of his flat. This time in the shower, though, was a first. There’s something to be said about choking on dick to start the day. Aziraphale’s erection a thick, gorgeous thing stretching his mouth as he sucked the angel down to the root and swallowed around the flared tip. Aziraphale moaned like he couldn't help himself, the sound bouncing around the enclosed space. And Crowley _loved_ it. 

Aziraphale came with a hitched moan and Crowley swallowed all of it, licking his length clean before getting back on his feet. He’s pulled in for a heated kiss right after, with Aziraphale jerking him off with quick, efficient strokes. It didn’t take long for him to tip off the edge and cum all over the angel’s hands. 

It felt so awfully domestic, washing each other’s backs after a bit of morning fun. Trading kisses as they scrub themselves clean. No, there’s nothing _awful_ about this. Quite the opposite, actually. It’s all so ridiculously wonderful, and that somehow frightened him even more.

The third time, Aziraphale was already up. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, a mug in hand. Crowley could tell that the steaming drink was for him, with the distinct aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the bedroom. The angel has always preferred tea, after all. 

They didn’t have sex last night, but had fallen into an unspoken agreement that some evenings are better spent together than alone. Neither of them questioned it when Aziraphale popped into his room sometime past midnight and slipped under the covers, right into his arms. It felt so natural. 

Belatedly, Crowley realised how well he’s been sleeping these days. His insomnia seemingly taking an indefinite leave of absence. He let himself wake up a bit more, and for a moment just watched. He watched as Aziraphale carefully held the mug with two hands, lightly blowing on the drink to make sure it wasn't too hot. The morning light casting over the side of his face and making him look like a proper guardian angel, blindingly bright and beautiful. _Heavens, what am I to do without you?_

It’s a thought that stirred deep within his ribcage and sent warning signals up to his brain like a goddamn panic alarm. He opted to ignore it for the time being, sitting up and sneaking in a kiss against Aziraphale’s nape. The gesture did a good job of surprising the angel, who chastised him immediately for it. But he laughed and kissed him again anyway, this time firmly on the mouth. A soft “thank you” whispered against his lips. 

This is all so _new_ to him. Being the one who is taken care of, even if it’s just something as simple as a mug of coffee in the morning. It terrifies him but _god_ does he want to bask in it anyway. He wants to bask in Aziraphale’s bright smile and shining eyes for as long as time would allow.

_(You are all the light I need.)_

***

Through unfortunate circumstances, Crowley ends up spending a few late nights at the office one week. It’s headache-inducing, to be honest. And exactly the opposite of what he signed up for when he surrendered management control to a brand new CEO (someone very much qualified, he made sure). Alas, a change in leadership has its own growing pains, and he gets caught up in smoothing out the transition. All to make sure his business can flourish even without him in the thick of it.

(All to make sure that he can put his full attention on more important things at hand, like pampering a certain angel.)

So here he is, on a Friday afternoon, hunched forward on his work desk and typing away on his laptop. Sorting through paperwork when he could be at his flat, kissing along the dimples of Aziraphale’s back instead. 

It’s a very nice office, mind you. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls on one side of the room, giving you a proper view of the London cityscape. Pristine sofa seats and a mahogany coffee table seemingly picked out from a proper lifestyle magazine. The desk is his personal favourite, though: red marble with quartz veins seeping through the surface and creating jagged, cracked lines. The sort of thing more fitting for a throne room than a corporate office. 

Crowley sighs and glances at his wristwatch. It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon. He just needs to get through his meeting at four and then he’ll be a free man. 

He plans on taking Aziraphale to a nice and secluded hole-in-the-wall restaurant tonight. Not anything too fancy so they can focus on eating and enjoying themselves after a busy week. He genuinely misses the angel, and while it’s been less than a month since Aziraphale moved in, they’ve already become accustomed to living together. They have their go-to shops to dine in, and their favourite shows to watch together on the telly. Not to mention all of the mindblowing sex. 

It wasn't difficult for them to figure all of that out, and there was no reason for it to be— they grew up together, after all. They were each other’s constants for so long, and even twenty years apart couldn’t take away that familiarity with each other. 

Crowley fumbles with his phone, looking at their chat on the screen and smiling at Aziraphale’s eagerness for their reservation tonight. Should he get him flowers? He should get him flowers. A token, to show him just how much he's missed him this week. That wouldn't be too strange, would it? Friends can give their friends bouquets. It's not like he hasn't spoiled the angel in a million other ways already—

He only jolts back to reality by a ring of the intercom. 

“Yes, Eric?” he asks, clearing his throat as he picks up the phone.

_“Boss, Mr. Fell came to visit. Should I let him in?”_

Crowley eyes widen a fraction, mouth already forming into a grin. “Oh?” he mutters in surprise, already fixing his blazer and smoothing down his shirt. “‘Course, let him in.”

The door creaks open a moment later, with Aziraphale stepping into the office and locking the door shut behind him. It earns a curious glance from Crowley, but all other thoughts soon fizzle out as soon as he sees the angel in full view: the crisp beige waistcoat, and blousy linen buttoned down shirt paired with closed-fitting off-white trousers. His hair fluffed up and curled to perfection. He looks absolutely regal.

“Crowley...” Aziraphale says, beaming. 

“Hey, angel,” he replies, closing his laptop and getting to his feet. His paperwork completely forgotten. “Now isn’t this a lovely surprise.”

Aziraphale nods, trotting over to back him up against the desk. Crowley isn’t sure who exactly initiates it, but in a heartbeat they’re already kissing. A few soft pecks that quickly escalate into a bruising, opened-mouth kiss. Aziraphale leans forward, his tongue swiping over his lower lip before pushing it into Crowley’s mouth, who lets an involuntary moan slip at the pressure.

“Holy fuck,” Crowley gasps when they separate, blinking hazily. “You should greet me like that more often.”

Aziraphale smiles sweetly in reply, burying his nose against his neck to take in his scent. “Mm, you smell so good, darling,” he purrs, leaving a kiss on his jaw.

Crowley laughs, letting him do as he pleases. If this is a little game, he’s more than willing to play. “Do I?” he mutters, one hand sliding down his back and gripping his bum to pinch gently. 

The action earns a yelp from the angel. "You're up to no good, my dear."

"Oh, and... you're up to good, I take it?" he retorts, lifting Aziraphale's chin up with his index finger. Their eyes meet, and the coquettish look the angel gives him sends a shudder of excitement down his spine. "Lots of good deeds planned when you walked into my office all dolled up like this?"

“Don’t be ridiculous, dearest,” he responds, leaning in until their lips are only a scant inch apart. “I wouldn’t dare disturb you from your _very important_ business matters.” He says this, but he's pressing his thigh against Crowley's crotch. He's tugging him a bit closer with the tie.

“I think that’s exactly what you’re trying to do. An attempt to distract me, yeah?” Crowley’s voice comes off strangled, his thumb brushing over Aziraphale's plush bottom lip. All soft and pink and _kissable_.

“Do you really mind it?”

He shakes his head, leaning in to gently bump their noses together. “Not at all. You’re perfect.”

The angel’s cheeks turn a darker shade of pink as Crowley tugs him in for another messy kiss. He wastes no time in shrugging off Aziraphale’s coat and flicking the first few buttons of his shirt undone. Enough to expose a sliver of his flushed skin. 

“Pity I can’t fuck you over this desk today, sweetheart,” he mumbles into another biting kiss. His hand moves up to cup his nape, thumb brushing over his blond curls. “You caught me by surprise today. Don’t have the necessary supplies.” 

Aziraphale shudders noticeably and pulls away to speak, a sudden shyness overtaking him. “I brought them,” he stammers. “In. In my pocket.”

Crowley pauses. “Jesus Christ, you really thought this through, huh? You visited me today with the clear intent to seduce me.”

“Please,” he whispers, retrieving the condom packet and bottle of lube from the pocket of his trousers, and blushing furiously as soon as they make eye contact again. “Would you…?”

“Oh, dove.” Crowley’s breath hitches. The very thought of having his way with Aziraphale here, within the confines of his office, arouses him beyond measure. They haven’t done something like this before, outside the haven of his penthouse flat. That’s probably what excites him even more. “Bend over.” 

They work in a quiet rhythm. Aziraphale toes off his shoes and pushes his trousers and boxers down just as Crowley unzips his fly and slips the condom on his shaft, giving it a few quick strokes. He watches as the angel bends over the desk, forearms steady on the surface, and turns to him for a little peek. Ready to be fucked.

It nearly drives him mad.

Crowley spreads his fingers wide over the expanse of Aziraphale’s soft skin, the pads of his fingers gliding over his bottom and giving it a good slap. “You’re so beautiful, sweetheart. Always so beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning down to breath hot and humid against his nape. “M’gonna ravish you. D’you want that?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale shivers underneath him, rolling his arse against the underside of Crowley’s cock. “Missed you - missed _this_ so much.”

Crowley has Aziraphale locked in place against the table, his fingertips kneading into Aziraphale's waist as he fucks into him deeply, roughly, with no remorse or worry that the angel will break. He knows what the blond likes by now. He's well aware of Aziraphale's fantasies, of every sensitive spot on his beautiful body.

And by god does he put that knowledge to good use.

He’s strong enough that when Aziraphale jerks about, when he tries to push his hips back or finds himself shaking in overwhelming pleasure, Crowley only groans and keeps him still with a firm press of his hands. 

There is something so exhilarating about this. This right here, this utter scandal, this rough desperate fucking behind the doors of his office unbeknownst to the rest of the world— this is what feels so good. It’s so, so good that he can taste the rush of his orgasm right on the tip of his tongue.

Crowley pulls out when he’s on the brink of it and comes hard, burying his face against the other’s shoulder to muffle his noises. 

“Fuck. Angel,” he rasps thickly, trying to catch his breath. He knows the other won’t last much longer. “On the desk, now.”

It takes a moment for Aziraphale to come back to his senses but he nods his head and gets to it. Crowley drops the laptop down on his leather chair before helping him climb onto the surface and parting his thighs open. A sight that makes him lick his lips. 

“My dear, let me touch you too?” Aziraphale weeps, sitting up and reaching over to pull at the buttons of the older man’s shirt.

Crowley seizes his hand to stop him and leans down to leave a single wet kiss to his wrist. "Can't mess me up right now, sweetheart. Still have a meeting in an hour. 

The angel sniffles but nods, lying down on his back and spreading his thighs wider. 

Aziraphale looks glorious like this, thoroughly debauched, devoid of trousers with his shirt unbuttoned and hiked up. Hot skin over cool marble. Crowley wipes a thumb over his rim, still throbbing with delicious ache, and asks, “This alright?”

He gazes up at him in wonder, eyelashes fluttering as he lets out a blissful sort of sigh. “Yes, darling. Now do get on with it, _please_.” 

Crowley trails a few kisses up his inner thigh and smiles, his hand sliding up to grip Aziraphale’s cock. “You didn't even have to ask.”

In no time at all, he has the blond writhing in pleasure underneath his touch and the warm, wet suction of his mouth. 

"Crowley, I'm so close," Aziraphale sobs, knocking over the metal pen holder at the edge of the desk and letting it fall to the floor. Neither of them care, though. They’re both too lost in the moment. "Oh, I need - I need..."

Crowley runs a hand under his ass, thumb pressing over his rim and grazing over it in a slow, aching circle until Aziraphale is reduced to nothing but obscene noises and guttural moans. "Cum for me, angel."

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes, a few tears making their way down his cheeks as he finally, _finally_ spills out with a long, drawn out whimper of Crowley’s name falling from his mouth.

Just for a minute, time stands still. For a minute, they belong to one another and all of this is okay. It’s okay that they’ve somehow made a home together and begun pushing at the boundaries of this unspoken arrangement.

When it’s over, Crowley helps Aziraphale up and kisses him softly. “I’ll get us cleaned up,” he murmurs, rubbing the other’s back to ease the strain of his muscles. “Then after my meeting, I’ll take you to that restaurant I mentioned, hm?”

The angel grins, eyes glittering and mouth bruised and swollen. “That sounds lovely, dear.”

  
  


***

It takes another week for Crowley to finally finish his workload and free up his schedule. Aziraphale greets him at the door with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. In retrospect, he should have taken that as a clear sign. The first sign of many that evening that something was bothering the angel. But he doesn’t want to be presumptuous, either. He doesn’t want to overstep. 

So, he surprises him with the brand new Cartier wristwatch he bought him on the way home and tries to make the rest of the night better instead. Some comfort food and cuddling on the sofa should do the trick, right? He knows Aziraphale likes a little pampering, he knows it’s something he deserves.

It’s been an hour since Crowley’s gotten back and they’re waiting for the food they ordered. Some sci-fi show is playing on the telly while they’re lounging in the living room.

And that’s when Crowley notices that something is really off. 

There _must_ be something off. Aziraphale is curled up on his corner of the couch, an evident gloom resting over his face. He doesn’t even try to come closer.

(And yet, even now, Crowley realises with frightening clarity that he wants _this_ life. He _wants_ Aziraphale. His best friend, his fussy angel. He wants him by his side always, in his flat, looking right at home here even as he sulks like this.)

When the food arrives, Aziraphale rises from his seat to retrieve the food, unaware that the inner workings of Crowley’s reptilian brain are suddenly shifting into motion. When he comes back and places the food down on the coffee table, Crowley pulls him in for a kiss. Aziraphale is caught by surprise but he melts into it anyway, settling on the redhead’s lap and draping his arms over the other’s shoulders.

Crowley kisses him thoroughly, until there’s a hint of a smile on the angel’s lips. Then he pulls away, a hand combing through his poof of blond curls. “Oh, angel. Sweet angel,” he murmurs, resting their foreheads together.

Aziraphale flutters his eyes shut and lets out a heavy sigh. “Something’s been bothering me,” he finally admits. 

“We can talk about it, if you like,” Crowley offers, cupping his cheek and stroking it gently. 

The angel leans into the touch. “Alright.”

Aziraphale explains everything over supper. He recounts his conversation with his insurance agent about the extent of the damage, and mulls over the loss of his precious books that were lost in the fire. He tells Crowley about the books he collected and the ones passed down to him by his grandfather, now all reduced to nothing but ash. All the while, Crowley has a firm hold on his hand, lacing their fingers together and giving it gentle squeezes now and again. 

After eating, Aziraphale stands up and stretches. His eyes give away that he’s still upset but at least he looks more relaxed. “You’ve already done so much for me, my dear. Let me clean this all up."

It’s only when Aziraphale totters off to the kitchen that Crowley sees a piece of paper left on the desk beside the plush sofa. He picks it up and inspects it, finding a list of books written in the blond’s handwriting. 

“Oh, angel…” Crowley frowns, scanning the list and seeing a few familiar titles. There must be something he can do to make things better. That’s his specialty, isn’t it? He’s been making the angel smile since he was eight years old. Surely he can think of something.

***

Later, they’ve fallen into bed together, fresh from the bath and clad in silk pyjamas. Perfect for some late night cuddling.

“I was thinking…” Crowley begins, sliding a comforting palm over the dips of Aziraphale's spine. “We could go somewhere. A vacation would be good for the both of us right now, to get our mind off… everything else. Anywhere you'd like.”

“Anywhere?” Aziraphale hums, leaning his head on the older man’s shoulder to better gaze up at him. "What do you have in mind?"

Crowley takes a moment, already piecing together the logistics in his head. "Ever been to Venice, angel?" 

The younger man's eyes light up instantly, an indication of _‘Yes, I would very much like to go to Venice with you’_ but he shakes his head a moment after. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly.”

 _“Aziraphale,”_ Crowley punctuates, offering a reassuring smile. “Just think it over, okay? I barely go on vacation, haven’t done so in years. And I’d really love it if you could join me.”

He nods his head, lips still pursed in a snitty little pout. The older man kisses it away. “Alright, dear. I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” he coos, putting an arm around the other’s waist. “Leave it to me, angel. If you say yes, I’ll make it worthwhile. Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like the chapter! Your kudos/comments mean everything. <3


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